


Finding a Sociopath's Heart

by rainfallsup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark!fic at some points, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Tension, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 73,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainfallsup/pseuds/rainfallsup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has just received an invitation to help with a quadruple homicide and abduction case when John arrives back  at the flat looking horribly ill. Believing the illness to be nothing more than the flu, Sherlock sets about nursing his blogger back to health, but appearances can be deceiving and John is better at hiding pain than Sherlock thought. Is it too late to save his best friend, or is there one more miracle left for the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ignorance is Never Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank phoenixfeathersinupdrafts, for the fun rp that inspired this story. I did research on cancer and potential treatments, and this story delves deep into the illness, so if this is one of your buttons, please do not read anymore. If I have anything wrong, let me know and I will correct my mistakes as soon as possible. This story is rated for later chapters.

John Watson had not been feeling well for several weeks. He returned home after another exhausting day at work, silently hoping that Sherlock did not have another case that required his assistance. He brushed a hand over his pale and clammy face, dragging his body into 221 Baker Street and ascending the stairs. He had lost a substantial amount of weight, feeling utterly awful all the time. He sighed; Christ, he needed sleep. The cold air from the London streets seemed to follow him into the flat, bringing welcome relief to his overheated skin and likely alerting Sherlock to his presence. Not that Sherlock ever noticed when John left.

"Four murders and a kidnapping! It must be my birthday! John, let's go, Lestrade just called asking for assistance. I don't know why he doesn't simply invite me to every crime scene, he..." Sherlock trailed off as he caught sight of his flatmate. The one who looked positively gray with exhaustion and some form of illness. Loss of weight, pale skin, sweat beading on the forehead. The flu, Sherlock decided. "Have you been given tomorrow off, then?"

The blonde doctor blinked up in surprise at the exuberant way in which Sherlock greeted him; it was somewhat endearing how excited Sherlock got by, admittedly, disturbing events. He sniffed, wiping some beads of sweat away as he glanced up at the detective, before he shook his head. "Quadruple murder, yeah? Not bad," he managed with a light smile. Christ, but his head hurt.

"You did not answer my question, John. Have they given you tomorrow off? You'll need it." Sherlock stopped pacing to assess the rapid decline of his friend, "and the following two days as well if this flu is the same one that has been going around." How on earth did a DOCTOR contract an illness, then let it escalate to the state John had allowed? Did he simply not care about his health at all, or assume he could brush the sickness off the same way John brushed off pain?

John cleared his throat lightly, before shaking his head. "No, there's no-one to cover. I'll be alright." He smiled again wryly, before glancing away from Sherlock's piercing gaze; bloody omniscient man that he was.

"I am not omniscient, John. Merely observant. Go lie down before you fall down. I'll make tea. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson has some form of soup she wouldn't mind bringing up. You'll need electrolytes and light foods." While Sherlock turned toward the kitchen to put the kettle on, he noted John had yet to move. "Now, John. It wouldn't do for my blogger to gain a concussion because he could not follow simple, helpful instructions."

Blinking up in surprise - he had definitely NOT said that out-loud - John sighed pointedly. Okay, he was re-evaluating that; Sherlock was psychic. As the detective moved into the kitchen, he frowned slightly, before meeting Sherlock's gaze again. He huffed softly, then turned towards the sofa. "What about the case?" he rasped, slowly lowering himself to sit. The well-used cushions gave way under the doctor's weight and cradled his body gently. Unfortunately, the comfortable cushions absorbed and reflected the warmth of whomever decided to sink into them, and the heat made John's head swirl.

"As slow-witted as Lestrade can be, I don't expect he'll burn the city down if I am not there this once. Anything he needs me to evaluate can be sent to my e-mail or to my phone." Sherlock moved methodically through the kitchen setting a tea bag into a mug and the pot on the stove to heat. While the water warmed, Sherlock moved to pull the green knitted blanket Mrs. Hudson gifted Sherlock with last Christmas from the back of his chair and lay it over his ailing flatmate. "I'll stoke the fire once your tea is ready, but the blanket should help."

John's brow furrowed slightly before he shifted slightly so that his legs were stretched out over the length of the sofa. He felt guilty. Sherlock had seemed genuinely excited, and it was rare that such interesting cases came along to stimulate his brilliant mind. As Sherlock approached, laying a blanket over him, John grasped his sleeve lightly. "Sherlock, as much as I appreciate this, you should go." He quirked an eyebrow before smiling slightly, "Quadruple murder. Might be a while before you get another one of those."

"Nonsense, John. With Anderson and Donovan, cases slip through the cracks all the time. Besides, I didn't say I wouldn't help. I simple said I would help from home." Sherlock leaned forward to press his hand over John's forehead, comparing John's body temperature to his own. "You definitely have a fever. Where is your medical kit?"

The blonde frowned again softly, before he blinked as Sherlock placed a large hand over his forehead. He cleared his throat again lightly, feeling it catch slightly, then he murmured, "In my room. Third shelf from the top, bedside drawer." He sniffed, tilting his face into the back of the sofa and sighing.

"Do you have any oseltamivir phosphate?" Sherlock called over his shoulder as he moved to retrieve the case from John's bedroom. Like the man himself, John's room appeared tidy and efficient, as evidenced by the location of the kit--close enough for John to reach in an emergency, but placed in a drawer to keep it from falling underfoot. Sherlock brought the kit into the kitchen with him to finish making John's tea, then brought everything out into the living room. "Here." Sherlock handed John the tea, fishing through John's bag for a thermometer, water bottle, and the aforementioned medication.

"Maybe, not sure," John murmured, tilting his head back towards Sherlock as he re-entered the living room. Pushing himself up again until he was sitting, he murmured a small 'thank you' and accepted the tea, cupping it in his hands as he watched the detective rummaging through his medical bag swiftly. Good thing John always kept the sharp implements in a hard plastic case, or Sherlock's efficiency could have landed him in the hospital in need of stitches.

"Here." Sherlock handed John the thermometer, knowing John would not need directions. John accepted the thermometer grudgingly and lifted his tongue to place the cool object beneath it. He breathed through his nose, waiting tiredly for the beep to sound. "I don't see any." Sherlock continued, "I will ask Mrs. Hudson if she has any medication in her flat. I would prefer not having to leave the flat in case your fever escalates or you collapse while trying to move about. Is the tea helping?" Standing, Sherlock moved to the fireplace and added wood until the fire roared merrily, then he moved back to John to see the reading on the thermometer.

Why did Sherlock have an interest in John's cold all of the sudden? It had been going on for weeks, and his flatmate hadn't shown the slightest interest in the symptoms, then. At the man's question, he waved a hand in vague answer before following the detective with his eyes as he banked up the fire and returned to him. Slowly, John tugged the thermometer out again, blinking before studying the reading.

"As I suspected," Sherlock sighed. John had a temperature of 38.9 degrees, and it did not appear as though it would be lowering anytime soon. Plucking the bag off the ground, Sherlock reached in and pulled out the aspirin. He removed the cap and shook two tablets out, handing them to John. "This should help with the fever until I can find something better."

The blonde sniffed again tiredly, before accepting the tablets from Sherlock. He offered a light quirk of his lips in response, "Thanks, Sherlock." He all but tossed the aspirin back, taking small sips of his tea to help them go down before he huffed out a breath, closing his eyes wearily. Silently, Sherlock stood and went to fill the water bottle with ice. Hopefully, John would get an hour or so of sleep while Sherlock spoke to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. If nothing else, the rest would help with the fever and the aches that would be starting up soon. Sherlock moved back over to John and gently brushed his bangs back before placing the cold pack on his forehead. With any luck, John would feel better by midnight. If not, Sherlock would make a few calls. John was NOT going to work like this.

John's eyes opened swiftly as Sherlock brushed his hair back and he set the cup of tea down so that the detective could place the pack on his forehead. He shivered slightly at the cold sensation, tugging the blankets up to nestle beneath his chin. He glanced towards Sherlock, offering a small, weary smile. "Thank you," he repeated gently, before he closed his eyes again.

"You're welcome." Sherlock whispered, watching his flatmate for few moments, a fond smile forming without his notice. Sherlock moved about the flat as silently as possible, dimming all the lights until only a necessary few were left on. He crept downstairs and Mrs. Hudson expressed her regrets for John's illness, as well as wishes for his improved health, before handing over the flu medication and promising to bring soup by in an hour. Unwilling to wake John up to take the new medication, Sherlock settled for texting Lestrade and setting up John's laptop for the case. He would pass the hour with work.

A tense hush settled over 221B as Sherlock focused on breaking down the latest case. Frustration rushed through him every time he caught himself looking at the sick doctor lying on the sofa instead of at the pictures of the four murder victims in the file from Lestrade. John caught the flu, for God's sake, not the West Nile virus. He would be fine with some rest and medication--both of which, Sherlock intended to provide in prescribed doses. He had no reason to worry so much over the simple flu! Running a hand through his unruly curls, Sherlock hunched his shoulders and forced himself to concentrate on the data. Statistics, facts, trends, potential suspects, and motives flashed rapidly through his mind's eye for five solid minutes, before the harsh, grating sound of air being dragged through lungs full of fluid rattled from the sofa to where Sherlock perched in his own chair.

Mrs. Hudson knocked gently on the door before pushing it open to see how the invalid and moody caregiver were faring. Based on the state of the flat, and the rattle coming from the sofa, not well. Heaving a gentle sigh, Mrs. Hudson carried the tray of chicken broth with soft, small noodles, into the living room and paused in confused amusement. When would Sherlock realize he cared for John Watson more than he cared for any other human because he was in love with the doctor? Hopefully, before she died of old age. They would raise wonderful children, who Mrs. Hudson would spoil rotten. Glancing around the living space full of empty cups, tissues, books, and various sharp utensils made her amend her precious statement. The flat would have to be baby proofed if any child could be expected to survive infancy in the death trap. 

"Sherlock," the man in question sat, perched like a vulture, in his favorite chair staring at the laptop screen and John alternatively. "I brought soup for Dr. Watson. How is he? Feeling any better, yet?"

"Thank you for the soup, Mrs. Hudson, but as for the status of John's health, you can clearly see he is not better. In fact, the flu takes at least a week, on average, to run it's course and for the symptoms to ease. He will show signs of fatigue and nausea for at least another six days, then continue coughing and sneezing for another week entirely." Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the bright screen as he spoke, refusing to look at John's figure curled and shivering on the sofa. "I will wake him up in a little while, so he may attempt to eat."

"Alright, Sherlock. Let me know if you need anything else, dear. I'll just be downstairs updating my scrapbook. Don't let the soup go cold." Seeing she would not get anymore information out of the detective, and the state of John, Mrs. Hudson decided to leave the room so Sherlock would not feel the need to hide his concern. The boy could really be dense sometimes. Didn't he know the whole of London knew he cared for John beyond what a friend would? Oh, well. Nothing for it now. Mrs. Hudson would just have to pray the two men saw reason before something forced them apart. She left the flat as quietly as she had arrived, and Sherlock breathed a small sigh of relief. He cared for the old bird, but he didn't want her speculating over his love life again. Not now.

The rattle drew icy fingers down Sherlock's spine, and he shuddered helplessly at the feeling. The symptoms John displayed seemed familiar, but he couldn't place when he had seen them last. It was infuriating. Had he deleted the information? Damn. After John settled into the cushions, breathing softly, if not exactly easily, once again Sherlock turned back to the laptop. The location of the child abducted must be in one of two buildings along the Thames. The pattern of the attacks circled the area in a haphazard ring, as if the killer tried to make the sites random, but hadn't quite succeeded. A light cough drew Sherlock out of the file again, then the coughing became hard and wracking and he knew John would not be able to sleep through it. 'Time for the next round of medication and ice,' Sherlock thought, hoping it would be among the last.


	2. From Bad to Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's illness takes a turn for the worse, and Sherlock in no longer sure he is simply suffering from the flu.

The doctor shivered lightly beneath the blankets, sweat trickling from his brow as the fever raged beneath his skin. He had always found it ironic that a man who professionally fought against disease could equally become ravaged by it. He was only human, he knew that, but it was a common assumption that doctors simply did not get sick. Coughing raggedly, John tilted his head, burying his face into the back of the sofa as his limbs twitched beneath the blankets. Sherlock stood and moved to retrieve the menthol rub from John's kit then moved to sit on the edge of the sofa, trying not to cause the blonde to shift too much. 

"John," he said, gently shaking the man to wake him up enough for some converation, "I need you to wake up for a bit. Mrs. Hudson brought soup up and you need to take the oseltamivir phosphate." Eyelids peeled open slowly at the shake, John licked his dry lips before his tired sapphire gaze slid to Sherlock. 

"’M awake," he murmured, before attempting to sit up, his arms and legs tangled in the blankets as he did so. Leaning forward over John's prone form, Sherlock eased his arms under John's back and helped him into a seated position. John allowed Sherlock to tug him upwards, blushing slightly in embarrassment, though he could pass it off as fever, and Sherlock reached for the soup Mrs. Hudson had brought up a few minutes earlier. 

"It's still hot so be careful." Sherlock hesitated before passing the bowl to John, watching him carefully for any sign that he needed help eating. John accepted the bowl with a small smile of gratitude. He balanced it on his lap, grasping the spoon and attempting to scoop up some of the soup. His hand trembled violently and he paused, staring at it darkly and willing it to still. He could still feel Sherlock's gaze on him and didn't want to be seen as pathetic. He wet his lips, before trying again, his hand shaking with tremors as he slowly began to raise the spoon again. 

Without a word, Sherlock gently plucked the spoon out of John's hand and proceeded to ladle up some of the broth. John winced slightly as Sherlock removed the spoon and the tips of his ears flared crimson as he realized what Sherlock was doing. Blowing on the broth gently, Sherlock moved the spoon to John's lips, waiting for him to open his mouth. The doctor scrubbed a trembling hand over his face, before meeting Sherlock's gaze hesitantly. God, he was being spoon-fed. It was humiliating. At the detective's insistent gaze, he sighed, before opening his mouth.

"There is no shame in needing help, John. I'm here, and you're suffering from a high fever, muscle cramps, and mucus build-up in your lungs. I want to help, so let me." Sherlock smiled a little as John accepted the soup, albeit reluctantly. He raised another spoonful and repeated the process. The tips of his ears still red, John remained silent as he accepted Sherlock's assistance. He swallowed the soup without a word as Sherlock repeated the mechanical action of feeding him, until it was practically gone. 

Eventually, he raised a hand, murmuring softly. "That's enough for now. T-Thank you."

"Stop saying that. It isn't necessary and it wastes energy you don't have." Sherlock set the bowl and spoon aside and picked up the medication and the glass of water he had placed on the table beside the soup. "Here. These should help with your flu symptoms."

John huffed in amusement - only Sherlock would want someone to stop expressing gratitude - before he accepted the glass and the medication, purposefully avoiding saying 'thank you'. He took the tablets swiftly, swallowing them down with grateful gulps of water before he passed the glass back to Sherlock. "Thank-- Never mind."

Sherlock smiled as he set the glass aside. "One more thing, then you can go back to sleep for a few hours." Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush, though he tried valiantly not to, "You need to put this on your chest." He held the jar of vapor rub in front of John, "It will help you breathe, and ease the coughs."

The blonde glanced towards the jar, before noticing Sherlock's blush. He had the good grace not to comment on it as he tugged his blankets down and moved to tug his shirt over his head. His blonde hair ruffled somewhat ridiculously, sticking up in all directions as John tugged the soft cotton over his head, and sat back, semi-naked. His weight loss was rather more noticeable without his clothes; his ribs protruding slightly and his stomach having sunken inwards. The sunburst scar, naturally, stood out along his shoulder before he reached out a hand for the vapor rub silently.

Gulping, Sherlock handed over the jar and tried not to stare at a half-naked John. Oh, but he was attractive. So much thinner than he was...wait. Significantly thinner. Another warning bell, this time a little louder, sounded in the halls of his mind palace. Sherlock saw John without a shirt on less than a month ago--twenty four days, five hours, and sixteen minutes to be precise. His weight had been normal for a man of John's height and build, and that is what worried Sherlock the most. "You haven't been eating properly. Why?"

Accepting the open jar, John dug his fingers into the viscous mixture before beginning to draw circles on his chest to rub it in. "Haven't really had an appetite," he murmured tiredly, spreading the solution over his thin chest methodically.

"Unacceptable. You will eat regular meals from now on. How do you expect to keep up on our cases if you are wasting away from lack of nourishment?" Sherlock knew he sounded harsh and hypocritical, but the state John was in worried him. A lot. "How long have you been skipping meals?" The sight of John rubbing the gel into his skin made Sherlock want to lean down and lick across the skin for some horrifically inappropriate reason. Strange.

Quirking an eyebrow at the comment, John tilted his head, wearily meeting Sherlock's gaze. "You are joking, right?" he managed with a rasped tone, watching as Sherlock's eyes snapped up from his chest to meet his own. "You're really giving me a lecture on eating? YOU?"

"Yes. I realize it sounds hypocritical at best, but I know my body's limits. I tested them extensively before I met you." Sherlock cringed slightly at the memory, his eyes flicking down to watch John rub in the menthol, and back up to the deep blue of his eyes. "Why have you stopped eating?"

Frowning slightly at the mention of his past - something Sherlock very rarely alluded to, if not at all - John glanced back to his chest before dipping his fingers in the menthol again and continuing. "Told you. No appetite. Probably illness related."

"How long?" Sherlock persisted. He needed to know if this was merely due to the early onset symptoms of the flu (highly unlikely), or for a deeper reason. He needed facts, from which he could draw conclusions. Facts John seemed thoroughly unwilling to provide.

John shrugged softly. "I don't know. A few weeks, I guess," he replied, rubbing the menthol in before proceeding to wipe his hands off on his jeans. Now, several bells rang in Sherlock's mind, and a slow dread worked through his veins like ice in pipes.

"That is longer than flu symptoms would last, and you know it. What is wrong, John? One does not simply lose his appetite for no apparent reason. You know that, as well." Sherlock did something then that he had never done before without ulterior motives or the necessity brought about by handcuffs, he reached out and clasped John's hand in his own. Hoping the contact would garner truth rather than cause John to stop sharing entirely.

The blonde glanced towards their joined hands, frowning slightly. He cleared his throat before shaking his head. "Nothing. Just run down, I think. Can't shake an illness because of it. It happens, Sherlock." He offered a wry smile. Twitch in his hand. Increased heart rate. Flick of eyes down and to the left. John was lying. Or omitting facts, but why? Worried Sherlock would judge? Worried Sherlock would be angry? Too much room for error, Sherlock needed more facts! 

"John, look at me." A frown settled on Sherlock's face as he leaned closer, trying to catch John's elusive gaze. John swallowed again, forcing back the rising fluid in his throat. God, it was disgusting. At his flatmate's insistent request, he blinked, before his gaze slid slowly towards Sherlock and he held the piercing eyes hesitantly; aware that he was being deduced.

Hesitance. A reluctance to allow Sherlock to draw conclusions from body language or emotions clearly present on his face. Trust. John didn't trust Sherlock with his problems, or the aftermath of them. Oh, that hurt. Why? Why did it only seem to matter what John thought of him? 

"Never mind." Sherlock glanced down. Away. He squeezed John's hand lightly before pulling away to tug the blanket back over John's chest and arms. "I'll change out the ice. You should rest some more."

Brow furrowing softly at the brief change of expression that flitted across Sherlock's face, John watched as Sherlock averted his gaze. He remained silent as Sherlock squeezed his hand and tucked him in, feeling utterly guilty. That expression - God, he had looked momentarily wounded - flashed before his eyes again and he opened his mouth to say something before Sherlock was moving away again. He sighed, snuggling deeper into the blankets and closing his eyes. Within seconds, he had drifted into sleep again.

Sherlock set the dishes in the sink and refilled the bottle with ice. He moved over to the sofa and leaned down to place the pack back on John's forehead. Making a mental note to check John's temperature when he woke up, Sherlock retrieved a bucket he had procured for a particularly important slug experiment, and rinsed it thoroughly before moving to place it next to John's sleeping form. There was more work to be done. He sighed and moved back over to the laptop, glancing up every few minutes to ensure John still slept.

John wasn't entirely sure what he was dreaming about. His thoughts were all over the place; flicking from Afghanistan, to Sherlock, then to work, back to Sherlock, cases, women, experiments... It was ridiculous. John woke with a violent cough, lurching forward slightly and pressing a hand to his mouth as he did so; politeness and all that. Standing quickly, Sherlock moved to rub a hand down John's back in an attempt to soothe, if not ease his coughs entirely. 

"You were out for three hours. Not quite as long as I had hoped." The hand not currently rubbing circles into John's back grabbed the fresh glass of water off the coffee table and offered it to John. "I'll need to check your temperature before you go back to sleep. You will need to put on more of the vapor rub, as well. It seems to wear off after 2 hours, 7 minutes, and 42 seconds. Of course, I will need to verify the time with a couple more doses to be sure." 

As his coughing petered out, John lifted his other hand to accept the glass. He removed the hand over his mouth and took a small sip before coughing again slightly, lifting his other hand again. "T-Thanks," he rasped, offering the glass back; a light red mark resting around the rim where his lips had been.

Blood. John had coughed up blood. Fear gripped Sherlock's heart and squeezed mercilessly. This was not the flu. John had developed something worse, "John, I don't believe you will be going in to work tomorrow. You need to go to the hospital as a patient. I will call for a cab."

The blonde frowned softly, glancing towards Sherlock at his reaction. He could taste the blood in his throat, obviously, but he shook his head. "Sherlock, it's alright. Sometimes strain on the throat through coughing causes blood to come up. It's not--" He coughed again into his hand, already lightly spattered with blood from before. Sherlock stared at the hand covered in flecks of blood, then at the glass which clearly displayed a ring of the same red substance on the rim, and felt his eyes grow slightly wider.

"No. You are going to the hospital, and they will make you better." Sherlock shook as he pulled his phone from his pocket and texted Mycroft. He would rather not ask for his brother's help with anything, but if John was sick, he would have only the best doctors treating him. After he sent the text, Sherlock dialed the number of one of the local cab companies and ordered one. It would arrive in three minutes, giving Sherlock enough time to bundle John up from head to toe. Swallowing again convulsively, John wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving light stains then watched in nervous fascination as Sherlock swiftly texted and dialed. He looked... panicked, but that couldn't be right. As Sherlock wrenched the blankets down, attempting to get him dressed and ready, he held up a hand, pressing against the detective's chest. 

"Sher-- Sherlock, stop it." John meant to sound strong and authoritative, but the wheeze in his lungs rather destroyed the attempt.

"No!" The shaking increased, and Sherlock knew the signs of an impending panic attack, but it would have to wait. John came first. Sherlock could fall apart later. "You are going, John. If I have to carry you over my shoulder, you ARE going." Sherlock retrieved John's coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, dumping it all on the sofa before reaching for John to help him into the winter gear. As Sherlock shook violently, John frowned. God, was he... Sherlock Holmes was actually on the cusp of having a panic attack. As the detective reached for him, John stopped him, grabbing his hands and tugging him to sit on the sofa beside him. Sherlock made to rise, but John placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him still. 

"Right, just slow down," he ordered; the rasping tone doing nothing to remove the authority behind his words this time. "Deep breaths, Sherlock."

"I can breathe later." Sherlock insisted, glancing up into John's weary eyes. John looked exhausted, and Sherlock could only imagine what emotions flew, unchecked, through his own eyes, "The cab will be here in a little over a minute. We'll get you to the hospital, and they will fix you. They WILL fix you. It's not the same. It CAN'T be the same." Sherlock began muttering under his breath and trying to force John into his coat and hat. His mind whirled with potential reasons for John to cough up blood. A precious few were not life threatening, and Sherlock now held a certainty he had seen these precise symptoms before. It had not ended well for the victim.

John frowned at the words, before grunting as Sherlock attempted to force him into his clothes. "Sherlock," he managed, before finally tugging away and rising waveringly to his feet, facing the detective. "What are you talking about? What isn't the same? I don't-- I don't understand."

"It doesn't matter! Please, just let me take you to the hospital. Please? I can't...You have to go so they can fix you, give you antibiotics. I can't HELP you here. Don't you understand!? Please? Just go to the hospital." To his horror, tears were filling up his eyes, blurring his vision, and clogging his throat. Ridiculous. Sherlock hadn't cried since...since his mother's funeral. Blinking in surprise, brow furrowed in concern as Sherlock's eyes welled up, John stepped closer. He leaned forward slightly, grasping one of Sherlock's shaking hands tenderly. 

"Okay," he whispered, cobalt eyes compassionate as he stared at his friend. "Okay, Sherlock."

"Thank you." Trying to breathe slowly and keep the tears from falling, Sherlock helped John put on his coat, scarf, and hat, before the horn of a cab sounded from out front. Sherlock grabbed his own coat blindly and he helped John out the door and down the stairs. He tried to collect himself enough to tell Mrs. Hudson that they were going to the hospital merely as a precaution- that everything was fine- that John would be fine, but he choked on the word 'fine,' essentially negating the term. Damn. At least the tears had yet to fall.

Admittedly, John clung to Sherlock's arm more than a little as his friend guided him down the stairs, though he was entirely uncertain whether it was more for HIS benefit or for Sherlock's. He offered Mrs. Hudson a soothing smile when she appeared, and she gave him a peck on his cheek before they headed towards the cab. Noticing Sherlock's distraught expression, John squeezed his arm gently then they slid into the back of the cab and he rattled off the name of St. Bart's to the cabbie.

A leaf in the dead of winter had more integrity than Sherlock's emotions at that moment, and he found it both frightening and irritating. John was coddling him. They both knew it, and it made Sherlock want to yell, cry, and shoot something all at the same time. He really needed a cigarette. Couldn't the cab go any faster? Christ! It figured Sherlock would be sent the one completely inept cabbie in London right when John needed to be at the hospital. How difficult could driving a cab through the nearly deserted streets of London at two in the morning be? Apparently impossible! 

The cab finally pulled up in front of St. Bart's and Sherlock practically threw the money at the cabbie as he climbed out. Leaning back in, Sherlock reached to help John down and out of the vehicle. He was fine. They were at the hospital, and Sherlock could smell the pretentious cologne Mycroft loved to douse himself in, which meant he had done as Sherlock asked and procured the best doctor in England for John, aside from John.

The blonde doctor knew Sherlock was somewhat irritated by his current tumultuous emotions and had enough sense not to draw attention to them. In a way, it was flattering that Sherlock cared so much, but he knew that wasn't just it. Something from his past had been triggered by John's condition and, though it wasn't his place to ask, he was curious and concerned. Being guided out of the cab caused his cheeks to heat in mild embarrassment, but he could let it go considering the way in which his legs trembled. The pair moved side-by-side as they entered the hospital, John attempting to head to the waiting room. John would suffer the tests, and Sherlock would see nothing was wrong, and then they would have a long discussion about overreacting. Hopefully.


	3. Regrets Collect Like Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John face the reality of their crumbling world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, do not read this chapter if cancer is something you cannot deal with, or would not like to read about. This story will get a lot worse before it gets better. Buckle up readers, this is an angst coaster, and you are about to hit one of the hills.

Steering his flatmate away from the waiting room to the round, particle board reception desk, Sherlock was mildly pleased to note a nurse standing by with a wheelchair and Mycroft hovering like a gargoyle over the proceedings. He lowered his friend- God, his only friend- into the chair and watched as John was wheeled ahead of them. The nurse nattered away at John, but the roaring in Sherlock's ears made hearing specifics nearly impossible. Mycroft grasped Sherlock's arm, causing them to fall considerably behind. 

"Mycroft, can't this wait?" Sherlock began to tremble again when the wheelchair disappeared from view. The elder Holmes watched as the wheelchair was pushed ahead, bearing the small doctor away from them. He pursed his lips for a moment; he had not realized how much was truly riding on John Watson's presence in his brother's life until he had seen the pair of them arrive. The doctor looked frighteningly weak and exhausted, but his coolly detached younger brother looked broken. 

"Sherlock," he began, releasing his brother's arm but aware that Sherlock had a habit of haring off. "You must be prepared."

"No." Sherlock hissed angrily, throwing a fierce glare at Mycroft, "I noticed it earlier this time. I know I did. Symptoms for two weeks instead of four months. This isn't the same, Mycroft. John will be fine. John HAS to be fine." The damn tears again! What in God's name was wrong with him? This time he couldn't stop them from spilling over, or his breath from hitching in his lungs in a terrible parody of how John had struggled to breathe the whole way to the hospital. "I am not too late. Not this time."

Mycroft remained utterly stoic as his brother lost his composure, for the first time in many years. His sharp eyes scanned over Sherlock's face as he began to cry, on the verge of breaking down into full-blown hysteria. He paused, before slowly resting a hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder. "I do hope you are right, brother dear."

"I don't need meaningless platitudes!" He yelled, but he leaned into his brother's touch anyway. If anyone understood the situation better than the younger Holmes, it was most certainly the elder. "I need facts! He displayed flu-like symptoms, but appeared fine, then he removed his sweater and..." The sight of ribs protruding under skin that had once been layered over muscle instead of bone made Sherlock cringe. "He has lost at least twenty pounds in two weeks. Three hours later he began coughing up blood. I didn't notice the weight loss. Why didn't I notice?"

The elder Holmes remained patiently silent at the words, leaving his hand comfortingly on Sherlock's shoulder. He knew his brother was affected, perhaps - surprisingly - more so than with Mummy. Slowly, Mycroft exhaled through his nose before replying, "Do give Doctor Watson some credit, Sherlock. He is rather more apt at shielding things from both of us than we would dare give him credit for." His lips quirked softly, his eyes remaining hard and sharp.

"What good is intellect if you cannot use it? What good am I if I cannot help the ones I l...the ones I care about?" Sherlock started down the hall John had been wheeled through. "Where are they going first, Mycroft? I need to see him." Glancing at the only family he had left, Sherlock bit back the plea, sure it was evident in his gaze, none the less.

Mycroft held Sherlock's gaze unflinchingly, before giving Sherlock's shoulder a gentle squeeze. He had suspected that his brother's feelings for the good doctor had crossed the border of platonic, but, in times such as these, he found himself saddened by such knowledge. "To an examination room to further assess him symptoms." Releasing Sherlock, he made to move past. "Come."

The tests seemed to take forever, and Sherlock found himself pacing outside of every procedure room. His strides took him from one end of each hallway to the other in an annoyingly short amount of time, only for the detective to pivot and start the process over again. Mycroft must have been ready to have one of the nurses try to jab him with narcotics, but he kept his comments blissfully to himself. Hours. John passed from one exam room to the next, undergoing test after test, for four hours now. Sherlock wanted the hospital to be thorough, but this bordered on the asinine. What on earth could be taking so long? Were monkeys performing the tests? Had they managed to lose data and now needed to repeat several steps? The slow pace was maddening! 

Another hour passed before the nurses wheeled John into a private room and proceeded to hook John up to numerous machines which would monitor his health. He looked so small, hooked up to all the machines, and God was that familiar. His mother had been only slightly smaller than John. Swallowed by the starched blankets and bleak white walls. 'John is fine. He will be fine.' Sherlock repeated the mantra in his head and, for the first time since he was little, began to pray.

The small blonde blinked up at the ceiling tiredly, listening to the steady monotonous beep of the heart monitor beside him and the slight drip of the IV from where it connected to his arm. He exhaled tiredly; now he just had to wait for his results. Hearing movement at the door, John tilted his head, lips quirking slightly at the sight of Sherlock. "Hello," he rasped gently.

Surely, Sherlock had dehydrated himself with as much as he had cried in the past five hours. Waiting for John to come out of testing made a mess of him, and Mycroft stood next to him the entire time. Never speaking. Never crying. Just like THEN. Another tear spilled over when Sherlock made to go into the room, so he stopped just inside the doorway. "Hello."

Brow furrowing softly at the tear, John's lips parted to say something before he thought better of it. He didn't know what to say. Instead, he merely stretched a hand out, ignoring the awful-looking needle that stuck out of the top of it, and reached towards Sherlock. It was a silent invitation, and one that he would hoped would offer some modicum of comfort. The garish sight of the IV protruding from John's hand had Sherlock's heart squeezing in his chest again. When the hand lifted and reached for him, he found the desire to clutch John to him and hide him somewhere safe overwhelming. It made the air rush from his lungs, and his knees buckle. 

"John." The name cracked and broke on the detective's tongue, just like the man in front of him appeared cracked and worn. "I'm sorry." Stumbling to the bed, he lowered himself next to John and gripped his hand gently between both of his own. "I'm so very sorry."

Watching as Sherlock's face crumpled slightly and he stumbled forward, John's frown deepened and he found his hand swiftly enveloped by Sherlock's larger, pale ones. The shaking John suspected earlier became glaringly obvious as cool fingers wrapped around his own.

"What? This isn't your fault," John replied tenderly, attempting to squeeze Sherlock's hand comfortingly but having difficulty due to his fingers being clutched by his friend. "Don't say that, Sherlock."

"It is. If I had noticed sooner..." Trailing off, Sherlock shivered, "I pride myself on my excellent powers of observation, and I didn't even notice you were sick until it was too late." His breath hitched again. "No, not too late. It can't be too late. Please, be okay. Please?" He no longer knew who he was speaking to, deity or man, doctors or fates, nor did he care. All Sherlock cared about, all he could think about, was the fate of ONE man, of his once vibrant blogger who currently occupied the hospital bed in front of him. Resisting the urge to flinch at the term 'too late' - Christ, and how he hoped that was just a dramatic exaggeration - John held Sherlock's gaze softly, his eyes compassionate as he settled firmly into his doctor persona; the soldier nestled down and at rest. 

"Sherlock, listen. We don't even know what's wrong yet, yeah? It could be nothing to worry about." Though it was obvious that he didn't believe it himself, John gave Sherlock's hand another squeeze. "Okay?"

"That's what my father said, when my mother finally agreed to go to the hospital." Sherlock didn't bother fighting the tears anymore--they obviously couldn't be stopped, "'It's probably nothing to worry about, Sherlock. They don't even know what's wrong yet. Maybe it's nothing.'" A sob broke free, "But it wasn't nothing. It was SOMETHING. We had waited too long to bring her in. No one noticed the early symptoms, then it was simply the flu, then maybe just a dry throat. Oh, God." His shoulders drooped lower as Sherlock shook in front of the only friend he had left.

John tensed slightly at the words. His mother. Oh shit. Sherlock had lost his mother to-- well, whatever it was that Sherlock thought he had. He swallowed slightly, studying Sherlock's hunched shoulders as he shook and sobbed. He had never seen Sherlock cry before; not genuinely anyway. It... It HURT to see, especially knowing that he was the cause. Pausing, John slipped his hand from Sherlock's before resting it atop the dark curls and tugging him closer. He shifted slightly nearer to the edge of the bed, before pulling Sherlock's forehead to rest against his collarbone. Wrapping his thin arms around the detective, John murmured in his most soothing doctor voice, "Ssh, Sherlock. It's alright. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"How? How can you promise that?" Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's morbidly thin torso, buried his face in John's throat, and let go. He hadn't cried when his mother lay dying in the hospital. Father said it was undignified, and Holmes' were NEVER base enough to show emotions to the outside world. No, if Sherlock wanted to cry or scream or curse, he would do so in his mind, nowhere else. This time his father couldn't dictate his emotions. Mycroft waited outside the labs, likely impatiently though he would never show it, for John's results. Probably pushing the timeline along. No one was there to tell Sherlock to bottle his emotions, to hide them where the world would never see. No one told Sherlock to stop crying, so he didn't. He simply gripped John as tightly as he dared and wept for them both.

The blonde paused at the question, uncertain how to answer it without potentially lying. He allowed Sherlock to clutch him tightly and his hands stroked methodically along Sherlock's back and to the nape of his neck, tangling in the curls, before moving down again in comfort. He wanted to give assurance; to claim that of course he could promise that because he and Sherlock were going to be running around solving crimes together until they were hobbling around with zimmer-frames and had to retire. He even thought they could move somewhere where there were bees, since Sherlock seemed strangely enamored with them. It never actually occurred to him, throughout this thought process, that he had the possibility of marrying and having children. Had it, he would have found himself utterly stunned, before realizing that there was no other way life COULD be. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: there was no room for anything else.

A soft tap at the door had Sherlock stiffening in John's arms, but he refused to let go. He wasn't ready for this--to hear the results that would inevitably shatter what was left of his world. When his mother died, Sherlock began experimenting with mind-altering, not-remotely-legal drugs. If John died, so too would Sherlock. He had nothing left without the man who called him brilliant, the one who became Sherlock's better half. Without him around, what could be worth continuing for? What could possibly make him want to continue breathing? Continue to exist? Sherlock tried to stifle his hiccups and calm his breathing, and the tap of Mycroft's umbrella on the ground made him want to curl up around John and never let go. Never move.

John glanced up at Mycroft's form standing stoically in the doorway, but he didn't release Sherlock, nor did it seem like the detective had any intention of letting him go. He blinked slowly, holding the elder Holmes' gaze as he stepped closer, tapping his umbrella lightly against the hard floor. Not for the first time in his association with Holmes brothers, John wished he had their deductive abilities; to be able to read exactly what someone was thinking from one glance. His sapphire eyes locked with Mycroft's piercing grays before the elder brother sighed softly and shook his head. Swallowing, John rested his cheek against Sherlock's hair, holding him even tighter.

"Tell me. Just say it, Mycroft. Is it cancer?" Sherlock couldn't look up. He couldn't bring himself to face what might be. With everything left in him, the great Sherlock Holmes begged. "Please, tell me it's not cancer. It's just a mild case of pneumonia or bronchitis, right? Right, Mycroft?" John's jaw clenched slightly at the questions and he held Mycroft's gaze for another moment. He tilted his head, burying his nose into the dark curls, closing his eyes softly. 

John said nothing as he heard Mycroft's voice rise up from the otherwise clinical silence of the room, "I am sorry, John, Sherlock."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and his mind raced. "They can treat it, right? I caught it earlier than with Mother. I caught it in time, right? Mycroft?" The name was a plea. The elder Holmes had never offered comfort or care, never shown any emotion, gave any indication he cared for Sherlock at all beyond familial ties, but Sherlock would forgive it all. He would do anything, give ANYTHING to have caught John's illness in time to save him. He could handle surgery and chemo, just not death.

Exhaling through his nose into Sherlock's hair, John's sapphire eyes opened, flicking towards Mycroft again as he stroked his hands along the detective's back. Mycroft paused before speaking, "John has Stage 3 Squamous Cell Carcinoma. Chemotherapy will have to begin immediately." As he said this, he met John's gaze before nodding. "I have taken the liberty of scheduling your first appointment tomorrow morning." And with those words, Sherlock's soul withered. 

"10-23% chance of survival. Mother had stage 4, but barely. Chances of finding a donor are slim. Little more than the survival rate, and if the cancer has spread to the other organs, potential donation become irrelevant." He rattled off statistics he memorized as a teenager, knowing the numbers were still accurate. "I failed." He whispered brokenly. "The only one I ever wanted to protect and I failed. I'm sorry. So sorry." His breath didn't hitch and his voice didn't waiver, it remained steady and without inflection. "I love you, John, so you have to die."


	4. Hope For the Dead or Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to think past the statistics, while John attempts to figure out what Sherlock means to him now that love is a possibility.

Closing his eyes slowly, John waited for Sherlock to finish rattling off the statistics--he was more than aware of what they were. John held Sherlock close, continuing to stroke along his back softly. Knowing Sherlock felt something for him, and seeing the sheer extent of those feelings were two remarkably different things. He figured the detective had the emotional maturity of a toddler, but John never would have guessed WHY he felt the need to bury all his emotions, to pretend they don't exist. Christ. His mother died of cancer. Not a quick, peaceful death either by the sound of it. The thought made him want to shield Sherlock from the next several months, at best, years, at worst, of treatment. John knew quite well, the pain he would need to push through in order to survive this, and selfishly felt glad Sherlock cared enough to still be there at the hospital with him.

"This isn't your fault, Sherlock," he whispered, his chest clenching slightly at the admission of love. God no, he couldn't hear that now. There would be more tests, more needles and pain, but John was no stranger to either of those things. Sherlock, however, didn't need to go through all that pain again. He didn't need to watch John become sicker and weaker--a shell of his former self. And, God, if he meant it? If Sherlock really did love him? This could DESTROY him. John heard Mycroft departing to give them privacy and he hugged Sherlock tightly to him. 

"I'm going to fight this. I promise you. I'm not going to give up, so you can't either, you hear me?"

"Mother fought. She's strong, they said. A survivor. But I loved her, and that was her downfall. I survived without her, but I can't, John. I CAN'T live without you. Don't you see? You are my heart. The only piece of it left beating. No one can live without a heart." His voice remained steady, as if he were reading off data in one of his experiments. Data John would record for him, with an amused, patient smile. Swallowing slightly, John fought not to break; it wouldn't solve anything. He felt scared, of course he did. He was only human and being faced with your mortality is not something that many people could deal with resolutely. 

"Don't say that," John whispered, holding Sherlock closely. "I need you to fight for me, Sherlock. Okay? Promise me you won't just give up." How could Sherlock NOT give up? He knew the outcome already, didn't he? The same illness that shredded his mother's health now tore through John Watson's body with the same single intention inherent in all forms of cancer--to kill the victim. Slowly. His mother had not been strong enough to fight through the chemotherapy, but this was John. The stalwart, bull-headed soldier who had clung to life after taking a bullet to the chest. Chances of survival when a bullet tears through the body, centimeters above the heart, are slim enough without adding the wartime conditions into the equation. Less than 5% chance of survival, but here John lay in Sherlock's arms. Breathing. Begging for Sherlock to lend him strength for this new battle. Could he do any less for his best friend?

"I go where you go, John." Sherlock said with resolution. The statement rang with both purpose and warning. If John wanted Sherlock to fight, he would, but if John died, Sherlock would follow. The blonde sniffed slightly, turning his face into Sherlock's hair. 

John pursed his lips to compose himself, before he nodded, "Then... Then it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere, isn't it?" Breathing in the scent of John, underneath the sterility inherent in hospitals, Sherlock clung to fickle hope. 

"If anyone can survive, it's you. Mycroft knows all the best doctors, too. He found you, after all." Sherlock placed a kiss on John's throat, where his face still pressed into the warm skin, in search of reassurances John could not offer. "Besides, you said you wouldn't mind keeping bees so long as we have the space for them. I'm holding you to that." Sherlock took in a small breath, "I love you. I should have told you every day, but I am not used to the emotion. I am not used to ANY emotion, for that matter, but I believed, foolishly, that I had plenty of time to comprehend them. I thought it could wait. I never thought there would not be enough time."

Blinking at the kiss, John's lips quirked softly. "If those bees ruin my garden when we retire, I swear I'm releasing them." He offered a gentle huff of laughter when Sherlock's arms tightened around him. John hoped to lighten the heavy atmosphere shrouding their new situation; difficult considering how dark it truly appeared. Inhaling slowly, he nodded. "I love you too, Sherlock. I really do."

For the hundredth time in as many minutes, Sherlock's heart squeezed, skipped a beat, then continued on. He pressed another kiss to John's throat, unable or unwilling to refrain from the simple show of affection. If they were dying, the journey would be as sweet as Sherlock could make it. 

"Bees come back, John. They always come back." Sherlock murmured against the doctor's throat.

"No they bloody well won't," John replied pointedly. "I'll sit outside in a rocking chair with a hose if they try it." Despite the situation, he chuckled at the mental image of the pair of them well into their twilight years with John attacking bees with a garden hose whilst Sherlock, comically, tried to defend his precious bees from the wrath of Doctor Watson. For his part, Sherlock smiled sadly. At least John still found something to laugh about, even though it was the thought of harassing innocent bees. Leaning into Sherlock, John nuzzled his cheek against the detective's, relishing the intimacy.

"The bees will pollinate the flowers in your garden, making it look wonderful. It's the caterpillars you should watch out for, as they eat anything with leaves on it." Sherlock chuckled, voice husky from the tears. He nuzzled closer to John. "They are going to need to bring an extra bed in here if they expect you to stay for any length of time."

"Then the caterpillars will be getting a face full of water if they try to eat MY flowers," he replied teasingly, tilting his head and pressing the softest of kisses to Sherlock's defined cheekbone. "Hopefully, I'll be allowed to go home and this be will not be needed for long. Should only have to come in for chemo." He tried to say it lightly, as though it was nothing too worrisome. If these WERE his last days, he didn't want to spend them watching Sherlock crying. God, he never wanted to see that again.

"Hmmm. I'm sure I could come up with some form of caterpillar repellent for the garden. I will have more time for my experiments once we retire. As for our new living arrangement, such as it is, I'll ask Mycroft what the doctors believe is best. If they say it is safer for you to remain here, then you will STAY here. Even if I have to move the whole of the flat into this room." Sherlock kissed the corner of John's mouth, nuzzling into his cheek. At the kiss, John closed his eyes softly, lips curling up so that Sherlock could actually feel his smile as they moved. 

He hummed in thought at the mention of Sherlock's crazy experiments. 'They could actually, literally, build Sherlock a lab when they retired,' John thought, lips quirking softly. He didn't want to think about the possibility that it was an impossible dream. That idea was too painful. He preferred to view it as their future; a possibility rather than a desperate fantasy. 

"Complete with the violin? And the skull?" John asked in response to the idea of moving their sizable collection of science experiments and random junk into the small hospital room. Granted, the room appointed to John was larger than any he had seen before, but it was still just a hospital room. 

"The ENTIRE flat, John. I'll even bring Mrs. Hudson if it will make you better. Hell, I'll kiss Anderson." A shudder ran down Sherlock's spine at the thought. John wrinkled his nose at the latter comment. 

"Ugh, God, please don't." He shuddered pointedly. "Besides, of all the people to try and make me jealous with..." That comment brought Sherlock out of his horrifying imaginings of being close enough to potentially kiss the dim-witted Anderson. Jealous? Why on earth would Sherlock want to make John jealous? Did John honestly think Sherlock could potentially care about anyone else?

"There's no one else for me, John. No one." Grazing his lips over John's ear, Sherlock conceded, "But you are right. The thought alone is enough to make all the serial killers in London gag and cringe in unmitigated horror." John's eyes widened, then crinkled with happiness. Sherlock nibbled on the lobe of the ear he had just kissed, "I'm sure the police will be over often enough, anyway. Lestrade never could go long without our help."

Closing his eyes slowly at the feeling of Sherlock's lips over his ear, John's lips parted softly. Saying it felt nice would be like saying that a hurricane was nothing more than a light breeze. The nibble forced him to bite his lower lip slightly. SHERLOCK was doing this? HERE? Shifting slightly, John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, studying him with an amused expression. Deciding not to comment on the detective's apparent ear fetish, he nodded, "Guess so."

"Guess? John, you have the filthiest mouth." Sherlock leaned forward, capturing John's mouth with his own. Only having kissed someone once before--and the one time being on the cheek of a girl who wouldn't stop crying until she had received one--Sherlock didn't entirely know what he was doing, but he trusted John to take the lead. Meanwhile, John found himself blinking in surprise as Sherlock kissed him. His eyes widened comically as he tried to reconcile what he knew about his flatmate with what said flatmate was doing. Suddenly John understood what Sherlock meant about 'having to reboot' his brain. With a kick-start, it switched back on and he cupped Sherlock's cheek tenderly, returning the kiss in a chaste way, savoring what would hopefully be their first of many kisses.

"I love you." Sherlock murmured into John's mouth. The feeling of having the doctor, HIS doctor, tucked into his arms, kissing him, felt like the atmosphere just before a lightning storm--the air sparked with the gentle hum of electricity and the world held its breath in anticipation. Perfect. Deep blue eyes locked onto Sherlock's pale grays at the words as he returned the kiss again softly. Their lips, Sherlock's plump and John's firm, moved against one another in perfect synchronization. John paused, hand resting softly on the detective's chest, not pushing away, just lingering there protectively. 

"I love you, too." What did one say to that? Sherlock wanted to say thank you, but wasn't sure that would be entirely appropriate. He wanted to apologize again, but that sounded equally insufficient and even rude. Instead, he pressed as much of his body into John's as he could and nipped at the man's bottom lip, suckling on it gently. As Sherlock leaned into the smaller man, almost completely enveloping John where he was sat on the bed, John hummed lowly. The detective nipped at his lip and sucked gently on the bite. John's fingers curled in the front of Sherlock's coat tightly. Jesus Christ. He was caught between absolute horror that they were moments away from making out on a hospital bed, of all places, and disbelief that they had never done this before now.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, "Stop thinking." Pressing his mouth back over John's, he sank into the warmth of his... best friend? Flatmate? Lover? Almost lover? No. All of those titles were insufficient at best, horribly painful at worst. He would ask John later. At the comment, John almost laughed before his lips were suddenly being claimed again. He didn't care what anyone said, Sherlock had either done this before or was one hell of a fast learner. Lifting his hand, John curled his fingers deeper in the dark hair, returning the kiss passionately.

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in contentment. This is what had been missing. This closeness, the shared space and heat, and love. He had nearly missed out on knowing what it felt like to be pressed against John, to feel his lips pressed with those of his lover (friend?), to feel John's tongue in his mouth, playing over his teeth and dueling with Sherlock's own. They had been so close to never knowing. How ridiculous. How utterly wasteful. "John."

The kiss seemed to go on forever, not that John was complaining. If he could, he would quite happily have sat and snogged Sherlock all day, exploring his mouth and finding new exciting depths with each venture into that tantalizingly inviting place. The kiss broke when Sherlock spoke his name, and the blonde took a moment to lick his own lip slowly before meeting Sherlock's gaze and offering a tender smile.

A throat clearing interrupted the blissful moment as efficiently as a gun shot in a crowded space, and Sherlock wanted to strangle the intruder. The doctor blushed rather violently at the sound of someone clearing their throat and John's eyes snapped over Sherlock's shoulder to study Mycroft, watching them with a quirked eyebrow. Pressing one more lingering kiss to John's slightly swollen mouth, Sherlock pulled back to take in John's flushed face. 

"God, you're beautiful." Sherlock stroked his hand down John's back then glanced over his shoulder to see who interrupted their small moment of peace. 'Mycroft' Sherlock thought, turning back to face John, 'I should have known.' 

"I'll be right back, love." Sherlock pressed another kiss to John's tempting mouth, unable to resist. "I promise." John's eyes flicked back to Sherlock at the kiss, before he smiled tenderly and cupped the detective's cheek. 

"Yeah, alright." He pressed another kiss to those deceptively plump lips before he drew back, allowing Sherlock to go and speak with his brother. Sherlock stood, reluctantly, and turned to leave the room, walked a sufficient distance down the hall, leaned against the wall, and sank to the floor.

"What does the specialist think? Are his chances on the high end or the low end of the scale?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of my readers are suffering from, know someone who is suffering from, ANY form of cancer, you have my sincerest well-wishes. I hope for the best for you and yours, and look forward to the day when no one has to suffer a loss due to cancer.


	5. Family Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, true to his promise, tries to forgive Mycroft for failings they both share.

Mycroft followed his younger brother out of the utilitarian hospital room, and had barely rounded the corner when he heard Sherlock slump back against the wall. He pivoted, leaning slightly on his umbrella as he watched Sherlock slump down until he was sitting, legs tugged to his chest. He always appeared so small when he tucked himself into his standard defensive position. So young. The elder Holmes sighed softly. "Regarding John's formerly healthy state, the specialist believes that it will boost his chances. Unfortunately, it all depends on how well he takes to chemotherapy. Radiation therapy is an additional option if he does struggle, but it is believed that chemo will be the most effective course of treatment." Mycroft paused, before exhaling again. "His chances are placed mid scale from what the specialist could determine."

"Mid-scale. Not as bad as it could be, but not great either. What can I do, Mycroft? What would you do?" He tried not to sound as lost as he felt, but knew he failed when he heard his brother sigh. The man never showed emotion unless he was deeply frustrated, or he had a vested interest in the outcome of whatever situation currently irritated him. In John's case, it could be either or both. The elder brother, however, had paused at the question. Sherlock never asked his advice. He openly scorned every opinion or thought Mycroft offered, in fact. 

Moving closer until he was stood before Sherlock's slumped form, Mycroft considered, "Sherlock, we both know that Doctor Watson is more than capable of exceeding expectations." He quirked an eyebrow pointedly. "As for what you could do, well... I would have thought the answer obvious." As Sherlock met his gaze, he inclined his head back towards where John's room loomed like a vulture intent on picking the doctor dry after the disease had run its course. The answer was simple and clear in Mycroft's eyes; stay with him.

"Obvious," Sherlock murmured. "Is there anything else? I feel useless, just like with Mother. I want to pull my hair out or punch a wall, both highly irrational desires, I know." He added when his brother raised an eyebrow again. "I'm not a doctor, or even a full scientist. I solve mysteries, puzzles, or riddles. I might as well be Anderson for all the good those skills will do me in this situation."

Mycroft pursed his lips for a moment, tapping the umbrella once against the floor as he pondered the words. Having such an, indeed, sentimental conversation was unheard of among the Holmes family. Even after Mummy's passing, Sherlock had shut down rather effectively. As had they all. Their mother had been the only one to truly encourage emotional responses of any kind and, even then, somewhat reservedly. The elder Holmes tapped his umbrella again. 

"Unfortunately, now is a time in which you must rely on the skills of others. As unbearable as I am certain that will be for you, I will ensure John receives the best treatment. Your task is merely to keep him going, Sherlock." 

"Thank you." Sherlock looked up at his brother, and honestly couldn't think of anything he needed to tell him more. A promise should be kept, if at all possible, and Sherlock had promised to forgive Mycroft's short-comings as long as John stood a chance of recovering. Though, after the quick response to Sherlock's rather frantic text, and the efficient manner in which Mycroft had corralled the best oncologist in England, Sherlock had trouble remembering why he hated Mycroft in the first place. "I mean it, Mycroft. I...without you, I would have fallen apart." He cringed in remembrance of the horrible sobbing mess he became earlier, "Well, worse. I wouldn't have gotten back up. So, thank you."

The cold expression that always seemed to reside on Mycroft's face thawed considerably and he inclined his head a fraction in response. "Not at all. You are my brother, Sherlock, and though we rarely see eye-to-eye, I am not lying when I say that I worry about you." He paused, then continued, swinging the umbrella, "John is also, by extension, a member of our family now. I protect my own Sherlock, as best as I can."

"I know. I remember. It wasn't a coincidence Lestrade happened to be working that investigation. A seemingly random killing of a homeless man in a deserted, filthy back alley hardly warranted someone of Lestrade's particular skill set." Sherlock tried to smile, but it came out as more of an awkward grimace, "Oh, but he was surprised when I told him who the murderer was, how he did it, when, and where." A weak chuckle emerged, and he tilted his head back against the wall. "Even then, you knew what I needed to keep going."

Mycroft's lips quirked a fraction and he set the umbrella point down against the floor again. He observed Sherlock carefully. Truthfully, he had not known that Sherlock would become so attached. He had seen something in the former army doctor and he had believed that he would be beneficial for Sherlock, perhaps even a friend to him if the detective would allow it. But love? Love was the blind-siding move that even he had not seen coming. The elder Holmes glanced away slowly. 

"Despite what you may think, I do wish only the best for you. However, I am ashamed to admit that I greatly underestimated Doctor Watson's importance initially."

"That makes two of us. I believe we were told, rather emphatically, might I add, by SEVERAL psychologists ranked the top in their field, that I was a sociopath. Sociopaths, true sociopaths, cannot love. I think you should ask for your money back." Sherlock shook his head back and forth against the wall, still trying to process all the emotions trashing his beloved mind palace. Mycroft hummed lightly, eyes locked on Sherlock as he shook his head in a frustrated manner, as though trying to shake loose the troublesome emotions ravaging his own mind. 

"Perhaps so," Mycroft replied quietly, before he pursed his lips slightly. "I do believe that you yourself were even beginning to believe that label over time."

A snort sounded in the hall, as Sherlock opened his eyes to stare at his brother again, "Beginning to? Mycroft, I had no evidence to the contrary. You saw the reports. I fully believed I was a sociopath. A high-functioning sociopath, but a sociopath all the same. Even Father agreed with the findings." Running a hand through his hair and tugging in irritation, he paused, "Though it makes you wonder. How many high-functioning sociopaths are merely filed under that descriptor because they haven't found their heart yet?"

Swinging the umbrella slightly at Sherlock's response, Mycroft studied his brother carefully. Yes, their Father had buckled immediately to the idea of Sherlock being a sociopath, proclaiming that it ticked all the correct boxes. Indeed, practically everyone who met Sherlock believed him to have sociopathic tendencies. It was a logical assumption in all fairness. 

"If it is any consolation, John disagreed with the diagnosis." The doctor pointed out the flaws no one else bothered to note. As their father taught them, 'eliminate all possible solutions and whatever solution is left, however improbable, must be the truth. Everyone, except the army doctor, failed to eliminate all possible solutions. The doctors found a solution which seemed to fit reasonably well, and stopped looking for potential alternatives which might fit better, and the Holmes family believed the diagnosis as if it were Gospel. 

Tugging harder on his hair, Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Yes, and I called him stupid. Told him he looked, but did not observe. Ridiculous!" His laughter abruptly shifted to sobs, and Sherlock had to wonder when the pain would stop. Would it ever? At the onset of the hitching sobs, Mycroft paused, then tentatively stepped closer to the shaking figure of his only living relative. Pivoting, he lowered himself elegantly to a crouch beside his brother, looking somewhat ridiculous in his expensive coat and holding his umbrella whilst he leaned as gracefully as possible against the corridor wall. 

Lightly, he grasped Sherlock's shoulder, before speaking: "Sherlock, though I understand that it is difficult, you must be strong. John is, noticeably, not our mother. Her fate is not automatically going to be his."

"I know that in my head, Mycroft. But how do you make yourself FEEL the truth?" He brushed the tears from his cheeks and leaned on his older brother for the first time in two decades. Slowly, Mycroft's piercing eyes slid to Sherlock as he leaned against him and his lips quirked a fraction. He only wished that such closeness could have come about through better circumstances. "Sorry for keeping you here. I'm sure you have political fires to put out all over the world. I'll be fine, as long as John is breathing." Offering a small smile, he nudged his brother gently, "Besides, you are ruining your new coat."

Mycroft nodded, "If you require my assistance for anything, Sherlock, do not hesitate to text or call. My assistant will ensure I receive the message in a timely manner."

"Alright, but that offer extends both ways." With a final sigh, Sherlock pushed himself to a standing position, then offered a hand to pull Mycroft to his feet. Mycroft accepted Sherlock's hand gratefully, rising to his full height and brushing down his suit until it returned to its utterly pristine appearance. "Lestrade is probably panicking right now. I told him John had the flu, so I would be unable to visit the crime scene, but I would look over the case via private e-mail. I haven't sent him anything since, I left my phone at the flat, as did John, and the flat looks like some of Moriarty's crew ripped through it looking for information." Sherlock took a moment to chuckle. "He is not going to be happy."

Hanging his umbrella from his arm, he tilted his head a fraction. "Do you require me to contract the Detective Inspector for you? I can inform him of the situation. Or, if you would prefer the situation to be discreet, I shall merely inform him that you will be unable to assist in any cases for the foreseeable future."

A hand buried itself in unruly locks and tugged once more, "Lestrade should know, but no one else. I don't want Anderson or Donovan skulking about, and making John frown. He needs to be happy. As happy as I can make him. Thank you again, Mycroft." On impulse, Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his older sibling in a slightly awkward hug. Neither of them had much experience with displays of affection, but someone needed to bridge the gap, and Sherlock had John to use for observational purposes.

Mycroft nodded at the words - Lestrade only - before his eyes widened in comical surprise as Sherlock awkwardly embraced him. He paused for a moment, then he lifted an arm and wrapped it firmly, if a tad hesitantly, around his brother's slim back, holding him for a moment. After a few seconds, which were more than enough for the two Holmes brothers, they both stepped back. If possible, Mycroft's expression became far warmer than it had been in years. The Ice Man persona somewhat melted away.

"Say hello to Anthea for John and me." That said, Sherlock tried to straighten his rumpled clothing, pausing momentarily to dust himself off and reinforce the membrane tentatively surrounding his new 'emotions wing' in his mind palace. Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock moved back up the hall, turned the corner into John's room, and burst into a peal of laughter.


	6. Tea Cozies and Relationships

The sight which greeted Sherlock upon turning to face the open door to John's hospital room forced deep guffaws of laughter out of the typically stoic detective. John glanced up as Sherlock entered the room, adopting his most fierce glare as the detective burst out laughing. It seems Mrs. Hudson had decided to visit early, and she brought enough stuff to furnish a second flat. John currently sat with a tea cozy perched on top of his head which took all the punch out of the doctor's attempted glare. After all, John lacked the ability to be intimidating even when the atmosphere cooperated with him, but beneath the cheerful pink and green knitted holder, the possibility of striking fear into ANYONE, let alone Sherlock, disappeared completely. John folded his arms over his chest petulantly, but only succeeded in making himself look even more ridiculous with the godawful tea cozy nestled atop his blonde hair. 

"Shut up, Sherlock," he grumbled pointedly, his cheeks flushing bright red and contrasting, rather noticeably, with the pink and green wool. Grinning the whole way, Sherlock crossed the room in three long strides, took John's adorable face between his hands, and kissed him with every good emotion he associated with the doctor. Returning it hungrily, John leaned forwards into it until a low moan was dragged from his lips and Sherlock pulled back to stare at him heatedly. Sherlock seriously contemplated the wisdom of straddling the delicious man on the tiny hospital bed covered in throw blankets, stuffed bears, and tea paraphernalia. 

"I love you." Sherlock stared into John's ocean blue eyes and willed him to understand how much. The kiss surprised John, but it was a welcome one. He almost made to protest when the detective backed away, but, again, they were in a hospital. Though it would be amusing to be found in such a, well, compromising position. The tea cozy slipped slightly, and John brushed it back up until it perched on the very top of his head, allowing him to stare up into warm gray eyes. 

John smiled fondly, "I love you too, Sherlock. More than anything."

The flustered, but enthusiastic fluttering of Mrs. Hudson drew Sherlock's attention to the right side of the room, nearest the window. 

"Oh, my," Sherlock mumbled as he took in decorations Mrs. Hudson had graciously strewn about the large hospital room. The wall was lined with pillows covered in cheerful pink begonia cases, and there were flowers, balloons, or both, on every available surface of the private room. 

"I brought you a few things to brighten the place up a bit. I always remember hospitals being terribly dreary, not good for healing at all, if you ask me. But, I'm not a doctor." Mrs. Hudson placed John's laptop case on the floor by the bed on top of, what appeared to be a shag carpet with a bright pink begonia pattern. At least there was a theme.

John glanced towards Mrs. Hudson, lips quirking affectionately even though his eyes were, quite noticeably, screaming, 'Why so much PINK?' To his credit, John was a pretty convincing actor when it came to not offending people or hurting their feelings and, honestly, he was humbled that Mrs. Hudson cared about him enough to visit and attempt to make him feel more at home. 

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," he said, voice colored with affectionate exasperation, while glancing around at the pastel shades of pink. Thank God hot pink wasn't Mrs. Hudson's style.

"Oh, it's no bother. I brought your computer, both of your phones, and your chargers. I thought you might need them, just in case they wanted to keep you overnight, dear." While she spoke, Mrs. Hudson moved about the room fluffing pillows and straightening blankets. John and Sherlock exchanged a surprised look. The woman always proved to be more helpful than either man expected. "Do you know how long they want you to stay in the hospital?" Her hands clutched in front of her stomach and she fluttered from Sherlock's side to John's and back again. Always moving away after brushing her fingers gently over one of their arms. "Whatever is wrong with you, dear? You both left in such a hurry, I didn't have a chance to ask, and I've been so worried."

The blonde smiled at the landlady's kind actions and attempts to help. He truly had been fortunate to find such incredible people-- such an incredible FAMILY at 221 Baker Street. At the question, John paused, feeling Sherlock tense beside him. He squeezed the detective's arm softly before meeting Mrs. Hudson's gaze. "Um, Mrs. Hudson, maybe you should sit down."

Oh, God. How were they to tell Mrs. Hudson? The woman adored John almost as much as Sherlock himself. Looking at John, Sherlock sifted through the information he had recovered on cancer patients enduring chemotherapy, and noted the significantly improved progress of those with support systems. John would have the best support system Sherlock could offer. 

"I'm afraid John has..." Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again, "He has cancer." The word felt vile on his tongue and all he wanted to do was brush his teeth to remove the taste. John was surprisingly grateful that Sherlock spoke. He had yet to say the dreaded 'c' word aloud and he wasn't intending to any time soon. John wasn't naive, far from it in fact, but actually saying the words 'I have cancer' would make this nightmare too real, and he simply wasn't ready for that yet. Giving Sherlock's arm a squeeze comfortingly, his other hand stretched out towards the rather pale-looking woman, attempting to offer support in any way that he could.

"Oh no. Oh no." Mrs. Hudson rocked forward in the chair and clutched John's hand around the IV. "How bad is it?"

"He'll need chemo therapy, which is why the doctors have yet to tell us how long he needs to be in the hospital. Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock tried to catch the elderly woman's eyes, "this is John." Sherlock squeezed John's hand, then let go to kneel in front of Mrs. Hudson. "John Watson. Military doctor, who took a bullet 2 mm above his heart and SURVIVED. He can beat this, too. He WILL beat this. After all, he has us. Right?" Sherlock wiped a tear from Mrs. Hudson's cheek and offered her a small smile.

Watching Sherlock interact with the distraught woman made John's heart skip and flutter. He observed the detective's face as Sherlock squeezed his free hand before sinking to his knees. Noting facial expressions and body language as he watched the lithe detective kneel in front of Mrs. Hudson--so compassionate and gentle that John found himself questioning how anyone could ever have believed that Sherlock Holmes was a sociopath. Everything about Sherlock's manner said he believed every word he said. John might not be the most observant man in England, but he knew body language better than most. The words tumbling from Sherlock's mouth humbled him and his lips curled lightly, his sapphire eyes flicking between his beloved landlady and his most precious detective: his family.

"Yes. Right. Of course you will, dear. Who will keep Sherlock from shooting holes in my walls, if not you?" Mrs. Hudson offered a watery smile and a firm squeeze to John's hand, careful of the needle. The blonde smiled at the question, returning the squeeze gently, holding her gaze softly. If Mrs. Hudson could try to lighten the mood, well, John wouldn't ruin her efforts. "Well, let me know what the doctors say. If they plan to keep you here much longer, I'll bring by some more things to brighten the place up! Get well soon, Dr. Watson. You are already missed around 221 Baker Street." Climbing to her feet, Mrs. Hudson pressed a kiss to John's cheek, patted Sherlock's and walked out without crying again. 

'Bless Mrs. Hudson, for her strength.' Sherlock thought as he moved to settle in the festively decorated chair by John's bed and wait for the doctor. John knew he shouldn't underestimate Mrs. Hudson, but her strength and fortitude continued to amaze him. Appearances were deceiving, of course, and Mrs. Hudson was a prime example of that fact. His lips curled higher at the kiss before he watched her go. 

"Bless her," John muttered out loud, unconsciously echoing Sherlock's thoughts before his gaze flicked intently back towards the detective's.

"Now, who is clairvoyant?" Sherlock smirked, leaning in to kiss his..."What are we?"

A blonde eyebrow quirked in amusement, John tilted his head forward before pausing to consider the rather unusual and poorly timed question, "What do you mean 'what are we?'"

"I am unfamiliar with all the colloquial terms for relationships, but the few I do know sound wrong. 'Boyfriend' sounds insipid, 'flatmate' does not convey enough, 'lover' conveys too much." The last was said with a blush, "Besides, we could not be 'lovers' yet, as we haven't...well, we haven't had sex." Sherlock tried to gauge John's reactions to each word while he struggled through his own embarrassment, "So, what are we? Is there a word adequate enough to describe what we have?"

John held Sherlock's gaze readily, before the tips of his ears turned slightly crimson to match Sherlock's blush. God, he didn't blush. Why was he blushing? Clearing his throat slightly, John shook his head, and replied, "I don't think there'll ever be an adequate word to describe us, Sherlock. We just ARE." He managed a smile, before adding, "If I wanted to be really cheesy, I'd settle on soul-mates."

Heart lurching at the term, Sherlock held John's gaze and told him, quite seriously, "I like that one. It fits." 

The doctor smiled brilliantly, studying his detective - HIS and no-one else's - as his long frame leaned closer. Truthfully, Sherlock was beautiful. Beyond his obvious attractive appearance and the number of times John had noticed people staring at the man when they passed, Sherlock was utterly stunning inside as well as out. There was his mind, obviously, which was an absolute wonder in itself, all crystal sharp edges and prism bright. John doubted there would ever be another mind like it. But then, there were the parts that no-one else saw, because no-one bothered to look beyond the obvious intellect and physical attributes. Sometimes Sherlock let small smiles grace his features when he figured something out, or break into gentle peels of laughter that, though rare, bordered on magical to hear. Because Sherlock Holmes was human, even if he attempted to view everything else as transport, and that in itself was beautiful to see. John could only be grateful that he had been the one to truly see it for the first time. 

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John's forehead, his eyelids, his cheekbones, his nose, along his jaw line, and, finally, his mouth. The doctor tasted of sunshine and heat, with an ever present hint of his favorite tea. "It fits perfectly."

"I'm glad you like it," John grinned.

"I love it, and you." Sherlock kissed him again. Smiling into the kiss, John shifted slightly to allow Sherlock room to climb onto the bed beside him. Settling his weight onto the mattress, while avoiding all the machine wires proved to be difficult, but not impossible. John helped by gently tugging some of the tubes and wires aside to avoid Sherlock getting tangled in them. The reward made the task entirely worth the time and effort, as Sherlock found he could settle lengthwise next to John if they were pressed close together, and the position allowed Sherlock to kiss, lick, and nibble quite a bit of John's lovely neck. Running his hands gently down John's arms to twine their fingers together, or down his back to soothe and warm John were also made possible by the position. The best part though, it allowed for comfortable cuddling, which quickly climbed the list of Sherlock's favorite pass-times. "John."

Before long the two were face-to-face, kissing like first-time teenagers experiencing the wide world of romance. Humming lowly, John tilted his head, returning the kisses as best he could in the awkward position. He nipped softly at Sherlock's lower lip when their fingers twined tightly together. It felt... well, perfection was overrated but THIS? If there was ever supposed to be an indisputable definition of the word 'perfect', there would be a picture of the two of them in this moment. "Sherlock."

"You should rest until the doctor stops by. It's been an eventful night, and day, come to that, and I don't want you getting worse." Sherlock smoothed a hand through the golden hair on his soul-mate's head and kissed him gently. Smiling fondly, and returning the kiss, John allowed Sherlock to shift an arm slightly beneath his thin torso until he was laid atop Sherlock's side. They both shifted in tiny increments until John lay half on top of Sherlock, his head cradled just under Sherlock's chin. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring my violin next time she visits, so I can play you some music to help you sleep."

He nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's neck softly, before exhaling into the pale skin, "That sounds lovely. Thanks, Sherlock." Tenderness and joy seeped through John's psyche, lighting up his soul despite the tenuous situation. Tilting his head to press a kiss to the smooth expanse of Sherlock's neck, John settled in with a deep, content sigh. The steady monotonous beep of the heart monitor sounded around him and he found that it was beginning to lull him to sleep. He did not resist, simply allowing his eyes to slide closed as he rested atop Sherlock, comforted by his presence.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered into John's hair. He didn't think he would ever grow tired of telling him that. Not even if they both lived to be old and gray, and John asked to hear the simple words a hundred times a day. Finally allowing his mind to drift, Sherlock flipped through what he knew of side effects suffered by chemo patients, and waited for John's doctor to arrive. Answers and data. That was how Sherlock would keep from going insane. He would bury himself in facts, data, and John for as long as he had access to them.


	7. Doctors, Inspectors, and the Governement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally hears from the oncologist, and we gain a little insight into Inspector Lestrade's evening.

An hour of intensive sifting through the rooms, hallways, and crawlspaces in Sherlock's mind palace revealed a surprising number of facts about the army doctor turned blogger, and an alarming lack of data involving sentiment, or love. No wonder both the Holmes brothers lived alone. He would bet his microscope, Mycroft knew about as much as Sherlock when it came to emotions. At least Sherlock had a chance to learn. He had John. But Mycroft? Who did Mycroft have to learn from? Sherlock could hardly teach his sibling something he himself had yet to grasp. Perhaps, John would have some ideas, once he felt stronger, of course. 

Maybe Lestrade would visit. He must know about relationships, seeing as he had been married for years. The divorce hit the DI hard, but Lestrade's wife caused the break by cheating. From what Sherlock knew, and observed, of the hard-working man, he valued loyalty, honesty, and friendship more than he valued a good night's rest. Perhaps Lestrade could befriend Mycroft and show him the rules and structure of a healthy friendship, then, eventually, Mycroft may find someone to love. 

Lestrade would at least call once he heard the news, and realized how dim John's immediate future looked. As part of the doctor's support group, the Inspector would keep John's condition quiet. He could be trusted to be both discreet and reassuring, which is why Sherlock felt he should know in the first place. Chances were, Sherlock would not be able to help on many cases in the near future, not until John had fought his way into recovery, so talking to Lestrade about alternatives should be done sooner rather than later.

Lost in thought, Sherlock did not immediately notice as the doctor entered the shadowy room, and John had completely drifted into an exhausted sleep by then. The man, Doctor Mahoney, paused as he entered the room, studying the two men snuggled together on the tiny hospital bed, clearly not made to hold two people comfortably. However, the smaller of the pair, undoubtedly sleeping whilst the other watched over him, looked incredibly comfortable and relaxed considering he now knew his diagnosis. It was somewhat touching to see. Mahoney drew in a steadying breath as Sherlock's sharp eyes snapped towards him and he mouthed silently: "I can come back later, if you want?"

"No." Shifting a little, so he could see the specialist more clearly, Sherlock whispered, "We will simply remain quiet. John hasn't slept well in over two weeks, but we need to hear about his condition. Please, tell me where we go from here?" Sherlock assessed the man quickly, noting the almost obsessively clean and pressed coat (attention to detail), lack of wedding ring (dedicated to his profession), and the manner in which he held himself (posture suggests well-respected, indicating top of his field).

Instinctively, Mahoney squared his shoulders and stepped closer, closing the door softly behind him before approaching the bed. His gaze flicked over his patient's exhausted and drawn features, before he studied the man's--well, he assumed they were partners or something of the sort. 

"Well," he began quietly, keeping his voice low so as to avoid waking John, "tomorrow morning, John's booked in for a chemotherapy session at ten. I want to see how he handles that dosage before I decide on whether or not I should send him home. Keeping him healthy, in all other aspects, is paramount. Chemo's notorious for being grueling and putting a strain on a patient's body." As Doctor Mahoney spoke, his eyes flicked pointedly towards John's thin frame.

"Nausea, dizziness, vomiting, extreme fatigue, anemia, dehydration, hallucinations, loss of appetite and hair, potential for nerve damage or infections, mouth sores, and diarrhea. Am I missing anything?" Sherlock stroked a hand gently down John's back, but kept his eyes on the doctor's face.

Surprise flickered in the doctor's coffee-colored eyes, "No, that covers all the immediate concerns. Have you dealt with cancer patients before?" Gray eyes narrowed, but the detective remained silent. Mahoney swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth, before shaking his head. "Never mind, it is none of my business. My best interests are with my patient. I have to assess if he would be better off remaining in the hospital's controlled, sterile environment, or going home where he will personally be more comfortable. To recover here means easy access to medical professionals and equipment, but his emotional health may suffer as a result of the necessarily utilitarian atmosphere. As I said, let's see how the chemo goes first, shall we?" The oncologist offered a tentative, soft smile.

"Yes. Logical course of action. I'll try to get him to eat tonight, before he falls asleep again. Am I allowed into the treatment room with him?" Sherlock tightened his arms slightly at the thought of anyone taking John out of his sight. Nodding slowly, Mahoney managed a gentle smile at the unconscious protective gesture. 

"Of course." Mahoney offered another small smile, "Family and friends often visit the treatment room with the patient. The only time that will change is if John needs radiation treatment, but we won't cross that bridge until we have to." Sherlock nodded once in understanding, and Doctor Mahoney stepped back, "I'll leave you two alone. If you need me for anything, just give one of the nurses a shout and they'll come and get me." His eyes twinkled comfortingly, a learned doctor skill used to soothe their patients and their patients' families, before he turned towards the door to depart.

"Doctor," Sherlock called softly. "Can he beat it?" He barely refrained from asking the unanswerable 'will he live' question, but Sherlock needed the specialist's honest opinion based on the scans he had seen. 

Doctor Mahoney paused at the door and considered for a moment. Stage 3 Squamous Cell Carcinoma was not pretty, in any sense of the word, and killed more people than Mahoney had been able to save. Naturally, however, every case was different. He had seen some people succumb within weeks of being diagnosed at this stage, whilst others had gone into remission and, eventually, recovered. With no typical outcome, no oncologist could say one way or the other, and he did not personally know John Watson. Did not know his strength of character, emotional stability, or if the army doctor could endure the negative side-effects long enough to fight the disease off. Mahoney took a moment before meeting Sherlock's gaze. 

"There is always a chance. Of course John stands a reasonable chance of going into remission and living a very long life. He just needs to keep fighting for it." Silently, Mahoney swept from the room, leaving the pair alone, and moving to check on his other patients.The conviction in Mahoney's eyes and voice settled some of the debilitating fear the detective felt. Sherlock nodded, buried his nose in John's soft, gold hair and began running through facts again. If a few tears escaped, well John would never know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hands ran through soft silvery hair, and a sigh filled the tense silence of DI Gregory Lestrade's office. This case had everyone on edge, and the media waited with baited breath for the next murder, hoping to further incite the citizens of London into a paper-buying frenzy. All it would take is one slip up from his fellow officers, or even himself, and the murderer would get away with his crimes. Would likely continue to kill. Add a child to the mix, and Lestrade wouldn't see daylight again until the case broke or his superiors fired him. To make matters worse, if possible, Sherlock had yet to call or e-mail any ideas, brilliant or otherwise. God, he needed a cigarette. 

Photographs of four dead women vied for space on the inspector's cluttered desk. Underneath the horribly graphic scenes lay a map with the crime scenes circled in red, and statements from witnesses, family, and friends of the deceased. On top of the ever-growing pile of information sat one cheerful picture. A 12-year-old blonde girl grinned at the camera, brandishing a blue popsicle in one hand and forming a peace sign with the other. Her bright green eyes shone with joy and the mischief expected from primary school children, but Lestrade saw a different sort of picture whenever he looked at the girl's face. He saw pale, sallow skin instead of the healthy flush and flat gray eyes in place of the vibrant green. Horror or fear would be frozen on her face and the inspector would have to tell another mother that her child was never coming home. Shit.

"The office is about to order food. We figure it's a Chinese night." Lestrade glanced up from his desk to see Officer Donovan propped against his, now open, office door. "You should eat somethin' Sir. Won't do that little girl any good if you drop from hunger and exhaustion."

"I know," Lestrade sighed, running his hand through his hair again.

"You still waitin' on word from the Freak?" Donovan straightened and took a step into the office, "I wouldn't hold your breath. He probably decided this case was too boring for him to bother. We're better off without him, anyway if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you, Officer Donovan." Eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate frosted over, "Sherlock Holmes' involvement in this case, or any other case, is not up for discussion. Frankly, your name calling is both childish and uncalled for, as the 'Freak' has helped solve more cases at this precinct than you and Anderson combined. If it would help me find this little girl any faster, I would hire a hundred Sherlocks."

Donovan straightened her back, taking two steps back until she stood just outside the door. She paled with every word and looked thoroughly chastised by the time he finished speaking, but she didn't look sorry. 

"I meant no disrespect, Sir," she mumbled.

"No. You meant no disrespect to ME." When Donovan appeared as though she might object, Lestrade raised a hand to cut her off, "I don't care what you say when you are off-duty, or behind the closed doors of your flat, but you will not be disrespectful to ANYONE who consults on a case at my request. Any further offenses will be recorded on your record. Do you understand, Officer Donovan?"

"But, Sir!" Donovan spluttered. 

"I asked if you understood." Lestrade responded, cutting her protests off.

"Yes, Sir. Understood." 

"Good." Rolling his shoulders, Lestrade stood from his chair and moved toward the door. "I'll be just outside if a call comes in. If it's Sherlock, or anyone with information on this case, come get me. Otherwise, I'll be back in fifteen." Donovan moved aside and Lestrade shut his office door, then moved down the stairs and out of the police station. He pulled a half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he walked to the smoke pit, then pulled one from the box and began the hunt for his lighter. 

"Damn." He cursed when two minutes of searching turned up nothing. "Must have left it on my desk," he mused aloud.

"Care for a light, Detective Inspector?" Lestrade glanced toward the street where a pretty young woman with dark brown hair and blue eyes leaned against a rather shady looking black car. The woman hadn't even bothered to look up, merely kept typing away on her palm-pilot. 

"No, thanks." His gut told him she worked for someone with a lot of cash, and her employer likely wanted more than to offer Lestrade a light.

"If you would please get in the car, I would rather this went smoothly. My employer hates causing a scene." Blue eyes flashed up briefly, as the woman gesture to the open back door of the vehicle, "He requests your presence immediately, and I would prefer not to get your superiors involved."

That had Lestrade's back straightening lightning quick.

"Look, Miss. I don't know who you are..."

"You may call me Anthea."

"Alright, Ms. Anthea, I don't know who you work for, but I'm very busy at the moment. If he or she wants to talk they can feel free to stop by the precinct like anyone else." A sigh from Anthea cut him off moments before his cell phone rang in his pocket. Stuffing the unlit cigarette into his other pocket, Lestrade fished his phone out and hit 'send.' "DI Lestrade speaking...Yes, Sir...Yes, Sir...Understood, Sir." 

"If you would, please?" Anthea waited until he hung up before speaking, gesturing once again to the open door, "He doesn't like to be kept waiting." She slid gracefully in behind him, and the door closed with a dull thud. The car started just as Lestrade began to wonder which of the people he had managed to piss off in his long career, had enough pull to have his superiors sign off on this little trip. Either way, it seemed Gregory was in a great deal of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Lestrade will officially be introduced to Mycroft, and we will get a look at the beginning of their potential relationship. I hope you all enjoy, and thank you for all the 'kudos!'


	8. Only the Good Die Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Mycroft don't get off to the best start, but that is neither here nor there.

To say the atmosphere in the car felt 'tense' would be like saying a gunshot wound stings a little. Lestrade called everything exactly how he saw it, no understatement or exaggeration necessary. Though, sometimes, Sherlock pulled frustrated and/or exasperated comments from him. 'Anthea' continued typing away on her phone while Lestrade took in the interior of the expensive Mercedes. Tinted, bullet-proof windows, beige leather interior, sound-proof partition separating the cab from the driver and passenger seats, and a (fuck me) car phone. The first thought through Lestrade's mind, loathe as he might be to admit it, was mob boss. But his superiors couldn't ALL be corrupt. 'Government official, then,' he thought, glancing at Anthea again.

"So, is there anything your boss DOES like?" As far as conversation topics went, this attempt proved pretty sad, but Lestrade hated awkward silences.

"Excuse me?" Anthea's eyes slid to the DI, and one of her perfectly shaped brows lifted in amused disdain.

"He doesn't like to make scenes, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting. What exactly does he like?"

"Punctuality." No sooner had the word left her mouth, than the car pulled to a gliding stop. The excessively tinted windows offered no clues as to where Anthea they were, but nothing ventured, and all that. The door to Lestrade's right popped open, and Anthea kept right on typing. Nothing new there. "You need to follow me, Inspector Lestrade."

While he had been cautiously peering around outside the vehicle, Anthea had somehow teleported onto the sidewalk on his side of the vehicle, STILL typing. Lestrade whipped his head around just to make sure there weren't two of them, shook his head in disbelief, then climbed out of the car to follow Lady Stealth. She didn't so much as pause, simply began walking up the stairs and into a ridiculously nondescript building. The dull red brick walls and shaded windows could belong to a building anywhere in London, which meant Lestrade still had no idea what he could be walking in to. 

"Anything I should know before I meet the man behind the curtain?" They turned down a hall on the right, walked through the second door on the left, walked down a flight of stairs...and the scenery shifted drastically. Gone were the plain white, stucco walls and questionable brown carpeting--instead the walls boasted pale gold paint behind several pieces of art, Lestrade knew he had seen during one of his rare trips to the museum. The white marble floors gleamed with a fresh coat of polish, and every now and again they passed a curio cabinet in deep mahogany, or an equally impressive cherry oak table with a small statue of some mythological figure sitting atop the smooth surface. 

"No." Anthea, the unhelpful, opened a mahogany door and gestured for Lestrade to enter. Heaving a sigh and fighting against the migraine he could feel building behind his eyes, Lestrade stepped into the room. At least he would finally be face to face with whoever was pulling the strings here.

"Ah. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please, come in." A pointless request, seeing as Lestrade already stood well inside the impressive, if windowless, office. "Make yourself comfortable, I will be with you in a moment."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Bond." Okay, not his best material, but the disembodied voice of his host, added to the atmosphere, freaked him out more than a little. Feet sinking into the plush, forest green carpet, the Inspector moved to stand just behind one of two comfortable looking white armchairs facing an imposing cherry oak desk. Every flat surface gleamed in the overhead light, which offered just enough brightness to see clearly without being piercing. 'Christ, I'm in trouble,' he thought.

"Sorry, to keep you waiting..." A section of the wall (the friggen WALL) opened to admit the owner of the cultured voice, and, okay, the guy LOOKED like Bond, too. Tall, broad shouldered, with dark red hair, and eerily familiar piercing blue eyes. Lestrade's host could certainly be 007. The man paused just inside the office, whether for effect or to observe, Lestrade couldn't tell. "I needed to return a few calls."

The focus of Mycroft's investigations had always been Sherlock, then Sherlock and John, with the rare image of Sergeant Donovan, Anderson, or even Molly Hooper, in the background. The only other figure to appear with any regularity always managed to be facing away from the cameras, or moving away so as to only be a blurred figure. He heard about DI Lestrade in his daily reports on the comings and goings of Sherlock and his doctor, but Mycroft had scarcely been able to put a face to the name, nor had he felt the need. The oversight would cost him his composure. 

What had Anthea called that actor...Hugh Laurie? A silver fox? Yes, that was it. Well, this man certainly fit the brief definition Anthea provided when Mycroft had raised an eyebrow in mild confusion. 'An older gentleman with dashing good looks and a wicked smile,' she had said. The Inspector's face, while bearing more of a scowl than a smile of any sort, made Mycroft's stomach give an unpleasant twist. He had a strong jaw and chin with small wrinkles around his eyes, no doubt from squinting at case files, and soft silvery hair and chocolate brown eyes only added to the pleasing aesthetics inherent in his face. Broad, and well-muscled, likely from chasing so many criminals throughout his career, the DI's body looked as appealing as his face. 'Lord, I might actually be in trouble.' Mycroft cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his equilibrium. 

"Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink?" Mycroft turned toward the wet bar in the far corner of his office, using the procurement of drinks as an excuse to gain back his illustrious cool. 

"I'm still on duty." Not a 'no,' per say, but Lestrade really wanted to take the mystery man up on his offer, and knew he still had a case to solve, without the benefit of a genius consulting detective. 

"I'm sure one drink would not affect your reasoning skills. What do you drink, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft kept his back to Inspector Lestrade, and let the DI's smooth voice roll through his mind. The tone had just enough growl to intrigue and arouse without being grating. 

"Beer, usually, but I like scotch every now and then." Lestrade watched the red-head pour the drink and return to stand just in front of the desk.

"You will want to sit down for this. I am afraid what I have to say is less than pleasant, to put it mildly." 

"How about you start with your name, seeing as you already know mine." Lestrade took the proffered tumbler before perching on the edge of the armchair he had stood behind earlier. 'It's as comfortable as it looks,' he thought, rolling the glass between his hands. "Fair's fair."

"Ah. Of course. I am Mycroft." He watched the Inspector's face for any sign of recognition. When he didn't see anything other than genuine curiosity in those dark eyes, Mycroft continued, "Mycroft Holmes."

"There's two of you?" Lestrade blurted out before he could stop the impulse, "Sorry. That was rude. Sherlock's never mentioned family before, so it's a tad surprising, is all."

"Yes." Mycroft cringed slightly, then composed himself again. Emotions really were a bother. "Up until very recently, my brother has thought of me as his archenemy. Very dramatic."

"Yeah. No similarities there." Lestrade pointedly looked around the impeccably decorated room, returning his gaze to Mycroft, "So what's this all about, then Mr. Holmes?"

"Mycroft, please, Detective Inspector." A small smile curled the outer edge of Mycroft's mouth, as he acknowledged the point.

"Just call me Lestrade. Or Greg, if you prefer. You still haven't answered my question, though."

"Very well, Greg." Mycroft paused to judge how his choice in names would be received. When Greg gestured for him to continue, he carried on, "You may want to put your glass down first."

"There's that flair for drama, again. Look...Mycroft, I work in the homicide division in central London. Whatever you have to say, just say it."

"John Watson has cancer." Because he watched Greg, Mycroft was ready for any manner of reactions, up to and including dropping the glass, screaming, shouting, or even throwing the glass at a wall. Pleasant surprise filled him when Greg did none of these things.

"What? Shit." Both were said quietly, with no small amount of shock in the tone. "What kind? How advanced?"

"Lung cancer. Stage 3." Mycroft kept his voice low, and as gentle as he could. This man befriended John, and put up with Sherlock at his worst. He deserved respect.

"Shit." Lestrade said again as he ran a hand through his already frustration-tousled hair, "Look. I know Sherlock is brilliant, and you probably share that with him as well, seeing as you appear to work for the government."

"A minor position."

"Right, and the sun is a little warm." He pushed out a frustrated breath, "Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is, I'm not as well-versed on cancer as you seem to be. You need to break it down further. Is he...will he..." Lestrade couldn't finish the thought. John, who put up with Sherlock's eccentricities and still went out for a pint with Greg once a week. John, who listened to Greg whinge about his family and work problems, and never interrupted or belittled him. Dependable John. Had cancer? "What does that mean?"

"He has a 10-25% chance of survival. His oncologist, the best I could find I assure you, placed John's chances at around 18% after seeing his test results." When Greg didn't move or react to those words, Mycroft moved forward, sitting in the chair next to the Inspector. "I am very sorry."

Lestrade stayed hunched over, his head down, trying to understand the words Mycroft had just said, but this...this was insane. 'But he's been shot before. He survived being shot to die of cancer? How fucked up is that?' His thoughts circled as tears spilled from unseeing eyes, 'The kind, DECENT guy gets cancer, and the murdering scum survive? Live life in prison? How the hell is that fair?' A hand on his shoulder jerked Greg from his angry thoughts. Wounded brown stared into sympathetic blue, searching for an answer. ANY answer to help make sense of the situation. 

Mycroft had hesitated to comfort his own brother, but with Greg, all he wanted to do was pull the man into an embrace until he felt better, until the world stopped collapsing around their small, makeshift family. It caused a pang in Mycroft's heart to know he couldn't help with this part. As a small compromise, he sat next to the DI and placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to offer some form of comfort. When Lestrade looked up with tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, Mycroft's heart SQUEEZED. It physically hurt to see this man cry. Mycroft understood Greg never showed his emotions on the outside when around co-workers or when he had a case. Unprofessional. Yet, here he sat. Breaking. Hurting, for the small doctor who touched so many lives without even trying.

"Sherlock wanted you to know. John needs a support group, and my brother felt you would be a wise addition, and he believes you will be discreet with the information. I agree." He didn't even blink, Mycroft noted. Greg's mind seemed to be stuck on the words 'John' and 'cancer,' so he didn't seem to be able to hear anything else. "John needs positive people around him to lift his spirits, so he can fight off the cancer. Greg? Do you understand?"

"Work." The random word had surprise flashing across Mycroft's face.

"I'm sorry?"

"I need...I'm working a case right now. A kid's been abducted by a serial killer. I have to go. I have to work." Lestrade couldn't process the news about John. Not right then. Not in the surreal building, with the elder Holmes staring at him like he might shatter. "If you'll excuse me."

"Greg," His grip on the DI's shoulder tightened in an effort to keep the man sitting down. "You are in no condition to return to your office. I will have Anthea take you back to your flat."

"No. I need puzzles that make sense. I need work that I know how to solve. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes...I need."

"You need to calm down and take a deep breath, Greg. Look at me. John is strong, and he has a chance. He can live. Greg? Do you hear me? John can live." All he could think to say were the same words over and over, calmly, with the authority bred into every Holmes. 

"I know. I just can't...process everything right now." Lestrade ran a hand over his face, wiping away the embarrassing tears. "I'll be fine. I just need to have a minute to...you know, catch up."

"I know. I will see you home, on my way to the hospital. Sherlock rather hoped you would visit later, but you will need to hold your emotions in check when you do visit. Sherlock...he has never handled emotions very well, family trait," Mycroft adds sardonically, "but this is worse. He loves Doctor Watson, and watching the doctor undergo intensive chemotherapy will test his limits. Sherlock will need as much support as John."

"Yeah, I get it. No bursting into wild sobbing fits." Greg shot Mycroft a sidelong look. "How are you handling all this?"

"What?" The question threw him off his thought process, AGAIN. No one had asked that. Why would they? Mycroft did not have cancer. He wasn't losing his lover to a disease. He didn't have a lover to lose. 

"I know Sherlock. He probably fell apart when he heard the news, and he probably wanted to hear it from you.That couldn't have been easy." 

"No, but someone had to be the bearer. Sherlock already hated me, so there was nothing to lose." Greg really had the softest brown eyes, like warm velvet. And a wide, generous mouth.

"Of course you had something to lose!" Greg insisted, noting Mycroft's quick glance at his mouth, "Sherlock may rail against you, but you're family. I don't think he ever really hated you, though he made a good show of trying." Now, Greg placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder to offer comfort. 

"He did." Mycroft chuckled, and Greg smiled a little. 

"This may seem strange, but if you ever want to talk or eat. I'll be around." Mycroft blushed, which caused Greg's small smirk to spread into a smile, "I'm sure you have my number mixed in with all my records."

"I believe I would like that. Thank you." Since when did Mycroft blush? That would become irritating very quickly. "Now, I did say I would see you home."

"So you did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you, everyone, for checking out/enjoying this story. I really appreciate all the support.


	9. Friends in Low Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade visits Sherlock and John.

Time ticked by in the quiet hospital room. The silence broken only by the equal breathing of the detective and his doctor, and the reassuring beep of the heart monitor. Seconds turned to minutes, which resolutely became hours, and Sherlock alternated between memorizing the feel and appearance of John nestled safely in his arms and catching catnaps. Five hours passed before a light knock sounded at the door, pulling Sherlock's gaze away from the sleeping man. Sherlock watched as a familiar silver-haired figure entered the room. Lestrade's wore a pinched and somewhat pained expression on his weary face, and he barely even reacted to the sight of Sherlock and John snuggling on the bed, the latter fast asleep.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice had that husky, I've-been-crying-all-day, sound to it, so Sherlock gently cleared his throat. "Come in. I see Mycroft informed you about the particulars." Lestrade barely suppressed a cringe at that, "Do you have any questions? I would rather John not have to answer them if possible." Sherlock didn't even bother to straighten up or appear aloof. Nothing about this situation made him feel superior or arrogantly confident.

Lestrade moved across the distressingly pink room as silently as he could, not wanting to disturb his friend. 'John needs all the rest he can get,' Lestrade thought, rounding the bed before sinking into the chair beside it. He sat nearest to Sherlock, John curled up against him on the other side of the bed. The Detective Inspector shook his head, scrubbing a hand along his face, before asking quietly, "How's he holding up?"

"Not terribly, but definitely not as good as I would like. He's a stage 3. Somehow I missed the symptoms for long enough," Sherlock swallowed, "just long enough for the cancer to progress to stage 3." He couldn't look at the only other person who believed in Sherlock's brilliant mind, didn't want to see the disappointment, or judgement, Lestrade would be justified in passing on him. "He starts chemo tomorrow. 10-25% chance of survival. That's it."

Not surprised by the barrage of information, Lestrade watched Sherlock's expression became gradually more and more agonized, his heart squeezing with empathy. Sherlock muttering the survival rate shifted something in the detective. 

"Oh God," Sherlock murmured. Lestrade scrubbing a hand through his hair and closing his eyes for a minute to compose himself. The idea that John, quite probably the nicest and most patient man on the entire planet, had been saddled with this disease still caused indignation and disbelief to fill Lestrade's mind. He shook his head and straightened his shoulders. 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Me too." He whispered, voice constricting with pain and barely repressed tears. "Mycroft found him the best doctor available, but his chances of...he needs people around him. People who will cheer for him to get better and not bombard him with discourteous questions or disobliging sympathy. I know he is your friend as much as you are his, so I thought you should know. Things are going to get much worse before they have even a chance of getting any better. He lost twenty pounds in two weeks, Lestrade. I didn't even NOTICE, and he lost twenty pounds." The whisper now had a self-deprecating edge.

Meeting the detective's piercing gaze, alarmingly on the verge of tears, Lestrade listened attentively. He could give Sherlock his attention, at the very least. Maybe he could do nothing for the actual illness, but John was his friend and Sherlock, though he might not agree, had always been more than a mere consultant to him. Sherlock's self-deprecating attitude had Lestrade shaking his head. 

"Don't do that, Sherlock. You can't see everything. Hell, no-one else noticed either, and John..." He paused, before nodding. "John's more than capable of hiding stuff from you if he wants. I doubt even he knew it was this serious. There's that flu going round and Jesus, even just stress'll take it out of you."

"Not twenty pounds! No one else noticed, but /I/ should have. How often do I miss details, Lestrade? When am I ever wrong? This should not have been one of those times. I should have paid closer attention, actually observed, instead of simply assuming everything was the same. You see him once every couple weeks, I see him EVERY DAY. There is no excuse." Sherlock shook his head as images of John's emaciated form flashed through his mind. Each one from a different day during the two week period. Each one a missed opportunity to get John help.

"Listen, Sherlock," Lestrade replied pointedly, his voice quiet but stern as he met Sherlock's gaze. "John is a doctor, and a bloody good one at that. He must have known he was losing weight but if he put it down to stress, or flu, he probably didn't want you to worry. I mean," he let out a fond laugh, "he wears those massive frumpy jumpers all the time. How WOULD you notice?"

"Obvious. He doesn't wear them all the time." Color seeped into Sherlock's cheeks again as he waited for Lestrade to comprehend his meaning, "You are correct, however, in the assumption that John believed his illness to be a simple, if persistent, strain of the flu. When he started coughing up blood...God, I may have fallen apart. I could not stop shaking, and he kept trying to insist the blood could be the result of anything. A dry throat or irritated lungs, but I knew. I'd seen the symptoms before, too similar to be coincidence." He cleared his throat again and tilted his head to look at Lestrade, "Sorry, I didn't have the chance to send you my notes on your quadruple homicide. Have you found the child yet?"

His eyebrow rose of its own accord at the fervid answer, before Lestrade managed to school his expression, listening patiently. The mention of John coughing up blood conjured up a rather disturbing image, enhanced further by Sherlock's assertion that he had seen the symptoms before, and broken down at the sight of them in John. As Sherlock locked eyes with him, he softened his gaze slightly. Right now, Sherlock wasn't the irritating, self-assured detective who swooped in, made an arse of everyone, and swooped out again. He was vulnerable and, dare he say it, scared. 

"Um, no, nothing yet. We've got a few leads that we're following up on, but nothing substantial." 

Sherlock gestured with a tilt of his chin, "John's laptop is in that case. All my notes are in it. I narrowed the location down to two potentials, I hope it's enough. If you have new information I may be able to narrow the field to just one location." He let the invitation trail off as John shifted gently in his arms. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of John's head, "Shh, love. Just sleep. I've got you." He ran his hands along John's back and his left arm, pulling the blanket up further to ward off any chill.

Lestrade glanced toward the black case before he watched Sherlock actually nuzzle and soothe John in sleep, planting an affectionate kiss atop his head. Lips quirking slightly, Lestrade reached for the laptop case, tugging it open, and turning on the computer. As it began to load, his dark eyes studied the pair for a second. 

"Finally," he huffed lightly. Grey eyes took on a steely edge as Sherlock swung his gaze to Lestrade.

"You knew." It wasn't a question. Lestrade suspected John and him to be lovers long before Sherlock even considered the concept, but he thought the DI merely aimed to tease or insult. He honestly believed they were good for each other? "Apparently, I am the only one who is blind when it comes to John Watson." Even with the blow to his ego, Sherlock couldn't help the gentle smile that formed when he looked down at the sleeping man. For his part, Lestrade couldn't help the smug smirk that spread over his face as Sherlock stared at him. It was nice to have, in some small way, managed to figure something out before the genius detective. 

"'Course I knew. I'm not entirely stupid, despite what you think," the DI replied with a light smile, before his gaze flicked toward the sleeping blonde. Brown eyes studied the detective's fond expression. "So," he began teasingly, "when's the wedding?"

"As soon as he feels well enough to stand through the ceremony." The silence drew Sherlock's gaze back to the DI, who stared at him in shock. "Oh. You were teasing." He continued caressing John's back and any bare skin his fingers came across. "I haven't asked him yet, but I love him. I just want to wait until he is a little stronger. A little more of his old self." His smile wouldn't fade, but he could live with the new expression. 

Admittedly, Lestrade had not been expecting that. Not that he had any objections, obviously. The idea of Sherlock and John getting married was surprisingly...well, it just sounded RIGHT. He smiled in response as Sherlock held John. Yeah, he could see it actually--the pair of them saying their vows and then strolling off together, though maybe 'into the sunset' was a little too far.

"And I never thought you were stupid." This time Sherlock made sure to lock eyes with the Inspector. "I would not have agreed to consult on your cases, ONLY your cases, if I thought you were in any way incompetent."

Lestrade held Sherlock's gaze, finding himself somewhat humbled. He cleared his throat slightly, averting his gaze. 

"Well, thanks."

"You may as well save your thanks for John. He makes me want to be a better person, and he insists good people show emotion. They tell others when they do something good, perhaps a little more often then when they do something stupid. Though, in Anderson's case that would be rather difficult to accomplish. I'm better with him, than I will ever be without, so pray it does not come to that." Sherlock kept his eyes on the blonde in his arms, perhaps tightening his hold a little more in an effort to get closer to him. He would never be close enough.

Lestrade frowned slightly at the ominous words. Sergeant Donovan kept insisting Sherlock would inevitably resort to violence to curb his boredom, but Lestrade had never believed her. Sherlock had something all those psychopaths did not--a moral compass. No one had taught him how to use it before John entered their lives, but once the detective's conscience formed, there would be no way to block it out again. John's voice had become Sherlock's conscience, Lestrade knew, and his voice would never fade from Sherlock's mind. 

He glanced up again, watching as Sherlock stared intently at the doctor in his arms. And there it was. Lestrade remembered telling John during one of their first meetings that Sherlock Holmes was a great man and perhaps, one day, if they were very lucky, he would be a good one. Apparently, John Watson had been the key to making that concept a reality and it was something that Lestrade would be forever grateful to him for. Before John, Sherlock had been far more tumultuous and self-destructive, but after... well, the results were there for all to see. 

"It won't come to that," Lestrade murmured softly, his gaze flicking to the laptop screen. "Does John not even bother with a password anymore?"

"Not after the last password break led me to some very interesting websites John had been surfing for 'his work in the hospital.' I don't know how gay porn would help with his work at the clinic, but I am willing to believe I do not know everything about the medical field." Lestrade choked on air, coughing lowly as he struggled to remain quiet so as not to wake John. Okay, THAT information he really didn't need to know. "Now, he simply scrubs his browser history, and leaves the laptop unlocked" Sherlock hummed quietly, pressing random kisses to the top of John's head. 'Almost time to wake him for dinner,' Sherlock murmured. 

"Hopefully, this hospital has some edible food for John. He ate Mrs. Hudson's chicken soup, but I doubt the hospital can replicate the recipe. I do not wish to fight with him in order to get him to eat." Sherlock murmured all this into John's hair, then turned back to Lestrade. "Have you found the file?"

Scanning through the files, Lestrade listened to Sherlock speaking as he worked. 

"In my experience, hospital food is rarely ever edible," he murmured, before clicking on the correct file and opening up the information. "Yeah, got it."

"Good. What do you see?" As Lestrade typed, Sherlock contemplated the food dilemma. Perhaps he could order in? Would John eat Chinese food, or would that be too heavy for his stomach? Lestrade began speaking again, so Sherlock tuned back in to what he was saying. "I'm sorry. Say that one more time?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes in gentle amusement, before reading the information out loud again. Sherlock nodded along, pointing out the relevant data with far less acidity than Lestrade was used to. 

"So, Brixton or Camden then," he commented, before nodding softly. "Yeah, I'd put money on Brixton. The murders seemed to be centered around that area." He glanced up, before adding, "I've emailed it to my address, if you don't mind?" He began turning the laptop off again before he noticed Sherlock's conflicted expression. "Surely they serve soup here or something?"

A cold glare pinged from Sherlock to the DI, "You just said hospital food is rarely edible. Why on earth would I give John 'occasionally edible' food?"

"Well, I doubt take-away's gonna do anything," Lestrade replied knowingly, quirking an eyebrow at Sherlock. "That was your other option, yeah?"

Sherlock grumbled, almost giving in to the urge to pout, "Yes, that was indeed the other option. So you recommend attempting the hospital food?" Sherlock watched Lestrade's face carefully, "Is that what you would do if you were in my place?"

As the laptop shut down, Lestrade closed it and glanced toward John. He pursed his lips slightly. If, heaven forbid, he and Mycroft were in Sherlock and John's place would he subject the elegant government official to questionable hospital food? Not that Lestrade had anywhere near the relationship John and Sherlock shared, with Mycroft. Technically, they were nothing more than acquaintances in a shitty situation. Lestrade hoped, maybe, he could work toward a relationship with the elusive elder Holmes. Couldn't hurt to try. 

"I'd recommend a test-taster first," Lestrade replied, gaze flicking to Sherlock. "If it's inedible, then yeah, get something else."

"Noted. Thank you. Good luck with the case, not that I think you will need it." With a nod and a small smile Sherlock bid Lestrade goodbye, "Maybe stop by tomorrow at 11:00, if you can? John will have just finished his first round, and I'm sure he would like to see a friend. Just if you have time."

Settling the laptop back in its case, Lestrade rose to his feet, nodding, "Yeah, I'll make sure to stop by." He managed a soft smile, before stepping forward and clasping Sherlock's shoulder, giving a brief squeeze before he turned. Rounding the bed, Lestrade walked out of the door to leave the pair to the unending quiet of the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, you all made my day with how much you are enjoying the story! I am beyond grateful.


	10. Lean on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade discuss ways to help John, and where everyone goes from here.

Greg walked to the hospital elevators in a daze. How one man could change so much in such a short amount of time confused him, and brought about a new round of concerns. Sherlock clung to John like a child to a security blanket, and the potential ramifications of removing Sherlock's 'security' so soon after he acknowledged its importance--frankly, Greg worried about the fallout. The detective barely clung to life NOW. How bad would he become, how completely negligent, if his one reason for continuing to breathe died? 

The inappropriately cheerful ding of the elevator sounded, and the doors parted with a soft woosh of air. Greg blindly entered the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby, then fell back against the back wall and pinched the bridge of his nose. A migraine crept up from the base of his skull to crouch behind his eyes. Another 12 hours of work waited for him at the office--12 hours of paperwork to set up the raid necessary to get the little girl back, hopefully alive. With so much death surrounding him, Greg wondered, not for the first time, why they bothered to try at all. Good men died, while the bastards and murderers lived on. Life sucked.

Releasing his fingers from their attempt to stop the pressure from building further, Greg stood and waited for the doors to open. In a few seconds the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid aside, allowing the jaded DI to stride through the lobby and out to the front of the building. After seeing John's emaciated form...he looked so small, curled up against the the consulting detective's tall form while clad in nothing but the thin hospital gown and the flimsy knitted blankets. The fact that John appeared thin when laying next to the scarecrow, Sherlock, made a shiver of dread trip down Greg's spine. Now, neither man had weight to spare. 

The walk to the station gave Greg time to think, but instead of using the time to strategize about the upcoming raid, he used the time to plan out a series of visits to the hospital and wondered when he would see the elusive elder Holmes brother again. Mycroft Holmes. A puzzle wrapped in an enigma encased in a very thick layer of ice. The man looked just like the stereotypical secret agent, both aloof and appealing. How could a man with such control over his emotions force such a passionate response in someone else? Was it the danger? The thought of being the one to melt the abominable agent when so many before had obviously failed? 

By the time Greg reached the station, he had more questions than answers, and the mild headache had reached screaming migraine proportions. He took the stairs two at a time, as if he could outrun the spike driving into the back of his eyes, and as soon as he crested the top Sergeant Donovan latched on.

"Sir, there you are! We were startin' to worry somethin' happened to you. You've been gone for hours. I checked your office and outside, but you weren't there. All we heard was someone requested your presence and you'd be back later. Are you alright, Sir?" Donovan's tangent carried Greg from the front door into his office, and to the creaking, hard as brick chair situated behind his desk. 

"Fine, Sergeant. I got a lead from Sherlock." When Donovan began to open her mouth to voice another, no doubt rude, opinion about the consultant, Greg shot her a pointed look in hopes of reminding her of an earlier conversation. That was the one thing he shared with Sherlock--they both HATED repeating themselves.

"So, what did he have to say, then?" She asked instead.

"We need to focus on Brixton. Specifically, the warehouse behind Orbital Sound on Acre Lane." Greg pulled the map from the bottom of the files still cluttering his desk with all the efficiency of a waiter pulling a tablecloth from under a set of china. "It was one of the areas we were focusing on, but Sherlock confirmed it. We need a team out there now, so grab your things. You're with me." 

Greg made the necessary calls and, within five minutes, four pandas including his were en route to the scene. The work felt good. Routine always helped put Greg back on an even keel, even during his divorce, so he focused on his job. He focused on Chelsey, the innocent little girl with blonde hair and green eyes, who needed him to find her and save her from one of the bad guys. Greg could still save her. Would save her. 

The next hour rushed by in a blur of sirens, gunfire, and crying. The suspect had refused to hand over the girl without a fight, as per usual in Greg's life these days, and after three rounds were fired at the cops on location, Greg had given the all clear to enter the building. The threat of hitting Chelsey kept the officers from firing, making it near impossible to apprehend the wanker. A bullet tore through the skin on the DI's right bicep milliseconds before Greg's bullet tore into the man's right shoulder. The scene ended with a flourish of shouting, lights, cuffs, and a medical team dragging him to the nearest ambulance for medical care.

"It's just a graze." This being the fourth time Greg tried to downplay the bullet wound on his arm, his tone showed considerably less patience, "I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm fine."

"Sir, you need stitches and we don't have anesthesia on hand." The paramedic, obviously flustered and possibly as irritated as Greg, kept cleaning the wound.

"Do you have the suture kit?" Greg slid weary brown eyes toward where Donovan stood, lowering the bastard into the back of one of the pandas. 

"Well, yes, but..."

"Then, just get on with it. I have paperwork to fill out and an appointment to keep." 

By the time Greg's arm had been stitched and bandaged and the paperwork all filled out and filed properly, the ancient clock on his office wall read 0300, and the migraine pounded so fiercely, Greg saw colors more commonly seen on Lisa Frank paraphernalia. Everyone had been sent home around 0100, but Greg stayed to go over everything one more time. No way this sick fuck was getting away on a technicality. Everything by the book, this time. The DI ran a shaky hand through his hair, tugging harshly on the strands in an effort to redirect some of the pain in his temples and behind his eyes. When the knives kept jabbing, he pushed away from his desk and began locking up. 

Five minutes later, and Greg stood in the same spot he first met Anthea, only this time he remembered his damn lighter and the first drag of smoke into his lungs had Greg almost whimpering in relief. 'Yes,' he thought, 'at least cigarettes are still good.' 

A whirring sound drew his gaze to a CCTV camera in the high left corner of the station building. The camera that now pointed directly at him. "Huh. Wonder why I never noticed that there."

Across the street four cameras, each guarding their own corners of buildings, turned in his direction slowly, but efficiently, until five cameras focused on Greg. This shiver felt more ominous than anticipatory, but only one person Greg knew had the power to control the city security cameras, and he only recently became acquainted with him. No sooner had these thoughts crossed his mind, then a very familiar black car pulled up to the curve. With an extreme feeling of deja vu, Greg watched the nearest back window role down to reveal the redhead he had just been thinking of. 

"Care for a lift, Inspector?" The cool voice rolled over the distance between Greg and the car like fog on a chilly London morning. 

"Why not?" Greg shrugged, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and strode over to the car. The door popped open, so Greg slid gingerly into the warm interior, pulling the door closed behind him, "I thought I told you to call me Greg."

"Yes. However, you also learned your friend has an advanced form of lung cancer, so I believed you might not have been thinking clearly." He responded.

"Christ. Do you talk to everyone like that, Mr. Holmes?" When Mycroft only raised an elegant eyebrow, Greg huffed, "It sounds like you're talking to the bloody prime minister, not a burned out copper."

"I show respect to those who have earned, or deserve, the effort," Greg turned a surprised gaze on Mycroft, "and I do believe I asked you to call me Mycroft."

"So you did." For the first time in too many hours to count, Greg felt a genuine smile curl his lips. "Well, Mycroft, what brought you to the station so late? Trolling for someone in particular?"

"I do not 'troll,' as you put it, but I finished my work and thought I might see if you were still here in need of transportation." Mycroft cringed mentally. God he sounded formal. When had he become his father? 

"Right. You know there is this new invention. Very handy. It's called a cab, and the drivers of these 'cabs' will pick you up and take you wherever you need to go." The smile became a cheeky grin, as Greg watched Mycroft for a reaction. He was rewarded when another adorable rush of pink stained the government official's cheeks.

"Of course I am aware of the existence of methods of public transportation. Seeing as it is 0310, I doubted any would be available for use." A sigh echoed through Mycroft's mind as he voiced the reasonable explanation for his visit. Of course, the excuse was complete nonsense. Mycroft wanted to see the Inspector, Greg, again. The footage of a bullet ripping through the man's arm still played through his mind, and he almost couldn't resist the urge to check the injury for himself. 

"Thanks, for that. I don't think I could have walked home at this point. I'm dead on my feet." Greg kept his face and tone warm and inviting. 

"You are welcome." Manners had been as efficiently drilled into Mycroft's head as chemistry had been drilled into Sherlock's. The smile on Greg's face caused warmth to bloom in Mycroft's chest and spread out to his other extremities.

"Are we pretending you haven't been watching me on the CCTV cameras, or can I ask why?" Greg didn't know who was more surprised by the question, him or Mycroft. Fifteen solid seconds passed by before the elder Holmes found his voice.

"As part of Dr. Watson's support team, you are needed alive and relatively healthy. I merely check to ensure you remain that way." That voice again. Cold and stilted, and only a small piece of the soul which resided in Mycroft Holmes.

"Alright. Next time I notice, I'll be sure to wave." Mycroft let out a breath he hadn't realized he held, and Greg continued to smile gently.

"How is your arm?" Mycroft asked. His cover already blown, he figured he may as well know so the question did not distract him throughout the night. 

"It's fine. Just a scratch. I've had worse." 

"Says every officer at one time or another. How do you really feel?" Mycroft's eyes, that same intense blue as Sherlock's, narrowed on Greg's face, noting lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. The DI's smile faltered and he shrugged his shoulders with resignation.

"It smarts like crazy, and my head feels like it's trapped in a vice, but we caught the bastard and that's good enough for now." Without pause, Mycroft leaned toward a panel along the left side of the vehicle, pressed hidden button, and reached inside the newly revealed cabinet. Greg stared in delighted fascination as a couple tablets of Excedrin and a small bottle of water were retrieved and passed to him. The panel slid shut as quickly, and silently, as it appeared, and he might have clapped if his head wasn't hurting so badly.

"That was incredible!" He whispered, then paused to open the bottle and down the tablets. "You really are 007 aren't you? Don't even bother denying it, I won't believe you anyway."

Mycroft smiled at the childlike wonder on Gregory's face. He rarely had the opportunity to surprise, or impress, anyone outside of the diplomatic community, and they never showed surprise or wonder. The blatant admiration on the DI's face went a long way toward helping Mycroft understand Sherlock's delight whenever John offered offhand compliments. The car slowed to a stop in front of Greg's flat, and Mycroft almost asked the driver to make another round. He thoroughly enjoyed the Inspector's presence.

"Listen," Greg said, as the door on his side opened, "If you're still up for dinner, I'm free tomorrow. We could talk about John, and what I can expect after his treatments. I'l be stopping by the hospital at 1100, seeing as tomorrow's my day off, but I don't think the chemo will have had a chance to run through his system so soon after the first round?"

"No. Dr. Watson will begin showing symptoms after the third round, but we can discuss that tomorrow at dinner. I will pick you up at 1900, Greg. If that is acceptable, of course." 

"Sounds good to me. Thanks again, Mycroft. For everything. See you tomorrow." The door closed behind Greg, and Mycroft released a breath of relief. Perhaps there was hope for him after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been so patient and wonderful, but don't worry. I will be posting 3 chapters in rapid succession and the third one will have some fluffy smut. I hope you enjoyed the Mystrade, because the next two chapters will be all about Johnlock. (Also, anyone who lives on, or near, Acre Ln or Orbital Sound, I apologize if this chapter offended you. No crime, that I am aware of, took place in this location).


	11. It's 5 O'Clock in the Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Johnlock dirty talk.

Twenty minutes after Lestrade left, and Sherlock began cleaning out a wing of his mind palace for John, Sherlock decided it was time to wake John up for potentially terrible food. 

"John." The detective cooed in his ear, nibbling at it gently before moving his lips down John's neck. "John, you need to wake up. You need to eat something. Come on, love." Sherlock pressed gentle kisses to John's face, anywhere he could reach. His hands trailed warmly up and down the doctor's back. The blonde shifted restlessly, before his eyelids peeled back lethargically and tired sapphire eyes blinked up at Sherlock. He blinked again as Sherlock pressed a kiss to his cheek and his lips quirked softly, the hands moving along his back, offering soothing comfort to his tense muscles. 

"Hello," he greeted softly. "What time is it?"

"1730, love. I wasn't sure what you might like for dinner, so I thought I would let you choose once you woke up. How are you feeling? Any better?" Focusing on gently working the knots out John's spine, Sherlock pressed kisses to John's face between each of his sentences. John leaned into Sherlock contentedly, smiling broadly at each of the kisses that were lavished across his face. 

"M'alright," he murmured tiredly, clearing his ragged throat slightly. "Just feel like I haven't slept in months." He tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw. 

"Do you feel like you could keep some food down?"

"Maybe. Guess it's worth a try."

"You can rest once you decide what you would like to eat, and I'll wake you up when your food gets here." Sherlock reached over to the rolling desk and plucked up a glass of cool water and the menu. Turning back to John, Sherlock passed him the menu and helped him ease into a semi-upright position so he could sip some of the water. The blonde winced slightly as Sherlock propped him up against the pillows, his back slightly resting against Sherlock's shoulder and chest. Cool blue eyes followed every move John made, waiting for him to pass out or drop the cup, John figured. He took a few slow sips of water before passing the cup back with a grateful smile, but the constant waiting for John to fall apart would drive them both crazy. 

Sherlock waited for John to hand the cup back and choose something from the impressively varied list, "Take your time, love."

Tugging open the menu with an internal sigh, John frowned slightly in surprise, "I didn't even know they offered this many different meals," the words were whispered quietly while scanning through the lists, but Sherlock heard. 

"Mycroft," He said, simply, smiling affectionately at John. Huffing in amusement, John nodded, and continued to read through the lists. 

"Remind me to buy your brother a bottle of something when I get out of here."

"We'll invite him over for dinner." Quirking an eyebrow in surprise at that, Sherlock actually wanting to invite Mycroft around to their flat, WILLINGLY, was unheard of, John studied the list of items, trying to figure out what he could actually stomach at present. Meanwhile, Sherlock curled around the smaller man, studying the menu over his shoulder and trying to deduce what John might choose from the extensive list, nipping and licking at the back of John's neck in contemplation. Soon his lips were moving down to the juncture where neck sloped gracefully into shoulder.

At the light bites and the liquid warmth of Sherlock's tongue on his skin, John's eyes slid closed and he chuckled softly. 

"I'm never going to find anything if you keep that up," he murmured teasingly, before shuddering lightly as the normally sharp tongue slid along to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Jesus.

"Mm. It's an experiment. I am testing your focus when distractions are present. As a former Captain, I expect you will do well." Sherlock spoke, then swirled his tongue over John's pulse point and gently sucked and nipped at the spot. John made the most delicious noises, and he tasted amazing. "What looks good so far?" Sherlock asked before resuming his exploration of the doctor's neck and shoulder.

Inhaling sharply at the movement of Sherlock's tongue - he swore to God it was sinful - John pursed his lips pointedly. "You do realize that most, uh..." he broke off slightly as Sherlock sucked on his skin, before he schooled himself, "Most distractions I dealt with in the army weren't of a sexual nature, right?"

"Good." Sherlock purred into John's ear, licking the shell briefly before returning to his throat. "I propose a deal." Sherlock ran his tongue over the nearest ridge of John's collarbone, "If you eat most of your meal, and manage to keep it down for thirty minutes, I'll do something to help you relieve some...tension."

John tilted his head slightly to one side as that damned/blessed tongue slid along his collarbone, one hand gripping tightly onto Sherlock's thigh as he did so. He exhaled slowly, eyes closed. 

"We're in a hospital, Sherlock," he murmured, but he couldn't deny that the proposition held tremendous amounts of appeal.

"Mmhmm. Your observational skills are sharp as ever." Sherlock said, not stopping, "In a private room, with shades, no camera, and a lock on the door."

Lips curling brightly, John tilted his head slightly, interrupting Sherlock's action so that he could place a kiss on the detective's warm lips. "Is that so?"

A wicked smile curved over Sherlock's mouth, "I told you, we are inviting Mycroft to dinner when we get home. Now choose wisely Dr. Watson." He nipped John's bottom lip and settled his chin on John's shoulder, granting a temporary reprieve from his mouth.

"Trust me, he's getting a three-course meal for this," John replied tenderly in reply, before glancing back toward the menu. "Chicken soup doesn't sound too repulsive. With bread. Sounds manageable." His eyes flicked towards Sherlock, as though looking for approval.

"Good choice." Sherlock pressed another kiss to John's inviting mouth, who smiled and returned the kiss enthusiastically, "I'll order it and you can rest while they prepare and bring the meal up." He kissed John's temple before picking up the land line and dialing the kitchen.

As soon as Sherlock set the phone back in the cradle, John struggled to sit up entirely. Now that his throat felt better, and food had been ordered, he felt the immediate need to pee. The IV fluids combined with the, almost entirely liquid, soup from Mrs. Hudson made John's bladder feel like an overfull water balloon being surreptitiously poked with a dull pin--eventually the balloon would lose the battle. Gentle hands settled on his shoulder and lower back.

"What is it, John? Do you feel sick?" Concern colored the detective's tone. 

"No," and fond exasperation colored John's, "I just need to use the loo. Too many fluids." 

"Oh." Sherlock's cheeks glowed in embarrassment. 'I should have thought of that, damn it!' He scrambled to help John rise and hobble to the bathroom. They both stopped when they reached the door, and John gently pushed out of Sherlock's arms.

"I think I can handle it from here," The small grin on his face made Sherlock's heart stutter helplessly.

"Alright. I'll be just outside if you need anything." John stepped into the bathroom and closed the door with a soft click. He moved over to the toilet and attempted to urinate while holding himself upright with a hand on the IV stand. After relieving his bladder, John moved slowly to the sink to wash his shaking hands and caught a glimpse of himself in  
the mirror. 

Avoiding mirrors became habitual after John saw how drawn his face looked a week ago, but the gaunt face staring back at him now looked like a wraith, not a former army doctor who took a certain amount of pride in his health. His breath hitched and stuttered in lungs full of cancer cells, and sunken blue eyes filled with bitter tears. The same thing he cautioned patients against, John had fallen prey to himself. Hesitance. Thinking his symptoms were minor and the cold would fade, John had not asked for any tests to be run, hadn't done blood work, or even gone to see another doctor. He self-diagnosed. Something all doctors were warned never to do in their careers. Now, he was paying the price, and Sherlock was too. The tears fell down his face and John cried for himself and for his newly begun love, shoulders shaking and breath rattling out in hitching gasps.

"John?" A soft knock preceded the turning of the doorknob, then Sherlock's face appeared in the mirror behind John, "Oh, John." Arms wrapped around his torso, puling him back into warmth and relative strength, but the tears wouldn't stop. "Shh, love. I'm here. I've got you."

They stood in front of the mirror for a few more minutes, rocking in each other's arms and trading comfort and strength back and forth. Finally, Sherlock pulled back from John and took his hand. "Come back to bed, John. You need to rest while you have the chance."

Climbing onto the bed, Sherlock gently settled his soul mate between his legs, so they could rest back to front on the narrow hospital bed. John snuggled down against Sherlock's chest again, listening tiredly to Sherlock hum Bach, his lips curling again. In any other situation, this would be perfect; almost as though they were at a hotel and Sherlock was calling room service for them the morning after. He huffed to himself in amusement, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's shirt as the tears finally subsided.

The detective's breath caught in his throat 3/4 of the way through the second stanza. Oh, God. John found one of his more sensitive spots. Lips curling smugly as Sherlock's breath hitched, John repeated the action pointedly, relishing in the detective's low groan. Sherlock resumed his gentle humming, finishing the overture, before he simply couldn't stifle his moans anymore. 

"Turnabout, my dear Watson, is NOT fair play." The groan emerged on a gasp for air, and a chuckle followed on their heels. "You are very good at that, but you are supposed to be resting, John."

"It wasn't intentional," he protested softly, "but now that I've found it..." He began mouthing at the sensitive area through Sherlock's shirt, eyes twinkling deviously.

"John!" Sherlock felt his head drop back and his hips jerk up against the doctor's. That was new. Interesting and new. Another moan broke from his lips as John's tongue flicked over the same spot, followed by teeth, then lips and tongue again. The pattern both enthralled and maddened. "Feels so good."

Feeling unbelievably smug at being the one to bring such reactions out of the ridiculously stoic Sherlock Holmes, John continued tantalizingly, shifting the wires aside as he teasingly dragged his hand along Sherlock's thigh, fingers exploring the thin, yet toned, muscle beneath his trousers.

"God, John." He groaned, almost panting at this point. "I wasn't aware these were erogenous zones." An embarrassingly high keen worked through his vocal chords and into the pink hospital room. "What would you like me to do to you, if you win the challenge?"

John smiled broadly at the delightfully desperate noises that keened from Sherlock's throat. God, he was delicious, in every single way. 

"If I win," John began, tiptoeing his fingers higher up Sherlock's thigh. He lifted his head, whispering teasingly into Sherlock's ear, "Well, use your imagination."

"Hmm. Would you like to know what I WANT to do to you? I could give so many details, John. Did you know there is an entire wing in my mind palace dedicated to you? Pleasing you, exploring you, investigating with you. Hn!" Another gasp ripped from Sherlock's lungs. "There's a study where I keep all my sexual fantasies, and they all revolve around gold hair, a faint tan, deep, fiery blue eyes, and a sinfully filthy mouth. I want to feel you fall apart under my hands, under my mouth. I want to hear you cry out in pleasure, and watch your body, your beautiful form, writhe from my touch. I want to swallow you whole and keep drinking from you until you are quivering from the endorphins. So many fantasies, John. But, I could always surprise you with which one I choose."

Staring at Sherlock's pale features, now tinged with a pastel pink flush, John stilled his hand slightly as Sherlock spoke. He felt his heart rate rising slightly, pupils dilating a fraction as Sherlock described what he would like to do to him. In fact, the concept that Sherlock had actually spent time thinking about this, had devoted space to him in his mind palace, was enough of an aphrodisiac to make John's heart flutter. His lips parted softly, before he nipped lightly at Sherlock's defined jaw. 

"Always did like surprises," he drawled teasingly.

"Surprise it is then." Sherlock caught John's lips with his own, pulling him into a fierce kiss that left his mind tilting and his body shaking. "I love kissing you. You're only the second person I've ever kissed. How am I doing?"

John's eyes widened slightly in surprise at the admission and he held Sherlock's gaze in shock. 

"Really? But--" he pouted teasingly, "That's not fair. You shouldn't be so good at this after only practicing with only one other person."

"I did research, just never gained 'hands-on' experience, if you will. Besides, I am simply following my fantasies and your lead. I know we cannot both be inaccurate, so I followed the written instructions up until your tongue scattered my thoughts, then I simply did what you did, or what I longed to do myself. If the method is so successful, I will have to apply it to sex, as well. Though I have even less experience at that than I did at kissing."

The blonde doctor listened raptly, as he always did to anything Sherlock was saying, with a permanent smile fixed on his lips. At the mention of sex, John blinked, before his lips quirked higher. 

"If your attempt at sex is anything like your attempt at kissing, you'll be MORE than fine, Sherlock."

"Mmm. I am looking forward to studying your methods, as well." Sherlock breathed into John's ear, "Are you a slow, gentle build lover, or a fast and rough ride lover? Are your skills instinctive or learned through exploration? Do you prefer to top, or bottom?" Feeling pleasure coiling slightly at the whispered words, John closed his eyes slowly, biting his lip. The last question made him pause, before blushing slightly. 

"Um. Well, I've never been with a man before," he admitted quietly.

"Me either." Sherlock placed a kiss on John's nose, "Well, we can try both and see how it goes. That is what experimentation is for, John." Sherlock placed one last kiss to John's mouth, moving to settle back on the bed and pull the table over. Blinking lightly at the kiss on his nose, John smiled again before responding to the kiss. "Your dinner should be here in precisely 30 seconds."

"I look forward to these 'experiments.'" He watched as Sherlock tugged the table closer before he laughed in amazement. "I love how you do that."

It was Sherlock's turn to blink and cock his head in confusion, "Do what, love?"

"Know everything," John murmured teasingly, eyes twinkling at the adorable expression. "It's still amazing to me after all this time."

"I don't know everything." The confession emerged quiet and shuddery. "I try to learn as much as I can, but I don't know everything." It felt like telling John his biggest sin, both terrifying and freeing. 

Before John could say anything, a knock sounded on the door and a tray was brought in by one of the nurses. 

"Here you are Dr. Watson. Press the call button when you are finished and a nurse will be by to pick up the tray. Enjoy!"


	12. Your Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds a way to ensure John eats... WARNING: Fluffy smut

The nurse had excellent timing. Admitting he did not know everything, was tantamount to the Queen admitting she was just a figurehead. Sherlock took great pride in having all the answers, so telling John about his lack of knowledge must have made him feel very vulnerable. John's lips parted to offer a reply to Sherlock's wavering statement, before the nurse placed the food tray on the wheeled table by John's bed. He smiled softly at her, thanking her genuinely before she left. 

Cobalt and icy eyes flicked simultaneously to the soup and John quirked an eyebrow, "Well, what do you think?"

"Lestrade recommended I taste it first." Sherlock replied, "If it is intolerable, we order in." Looking at John's face, Sherlock asked, "Does that sound reasonable?"

"Lestrade?" John replied softly, meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Wait, when was Greg here?"

"While you were sleeping." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. Had he made a mistake by not waking John? "I know you two are good friends, so I thought you would want him to know. So he can visit. I asked Mycroft to inform him, but no one else." Now the words raced out of his mouth. 'Is John mad? Did I do something stupid?' "I didn't want to wake you, but he needed help with the murderer I told you about, and I asked him to visit tomorrow at 11 AM, because the side effects will not have begun by then. I'm sorry. I should have asked." 

Fear lanced into Sherlock's heart and the once steady beat became irregular, choppy, and quick. His palms and forehead broke out in a sweat, and Sherlock felt panic slink from the shadows of his mind palace, forcing reason back. Staring down at his hands, he began to edge out from under John and away from the warmth that emanated from the doctor. Any minute now John would tell Sherlock how disappointed he was, and ask him to leave.

John listened to the tirade of words patiently, studying Sherlock closely as he spoke. Right, so Mycroft had told Greg, but no one else. Sherlock had helped out with a case. Greg was visiting after his first chemo session. He glanced back at Sherlock and frowned in confusion when the man tried to shift away. 

"I don't know why you're apologizing. I'm glad you told Greg, and I'm really flattered that you thought ahead to tomorrow. I will feel better after talking to someone outside this situation. I want to know what's happening in the real world. You know, the one outside the hospital walls?" John smiled again.

"Really? You aren't mad that I didn't ask whom you wanted informed of...the situation?" Sherlock looked at John with hope, warmth, and love, "I don't deserve you, but I'll be better. I promise, I'll be better."

"Don't be silly," the blonde murmured, smile growing into a grin. "You don't have to be better, Sherlock. You're perfect just as you are. Brilliant, fierce, and a right pain in the arse sometimes." Just in case Sherlock didn't know he joked, John pressed a gentle kiss to the underside of the detective's jaw, then settled more firmly against him.

"Your soup is getting cold. I believe you have a challenge to beat, love." Sherlock said, kissing the top of his golden head and tightening his arms around John's middle.

"I thought you said you were going to play taste-tester." Now a golden brow rose in challenge. Picking up one of the spoons, Sherlock delicately sniffed the broth, then sipped a little of it into his mouth. Surprise flickered over his his face. 

"I think you'll like it, John. Light and aromatic. It shouldn't make you nauseous." Passing over the spoon, Sherlock settled behind John, situating the doctor more comfortably between his legs as he leaned back against the bed. "Eat slowly, just in case."

Watching as Sherlock tested it, appearing for all the world as if he were checking for poison instead of bad seasoning, John studied his face before accepting the spoon back. 

"Alright. I'll take your word for it." He shifted slightly as Sherlock settled into place behind him, his legs acting like armrests, before John obliged, slowly beginning to eat the surprisingly nice broth. He looked so small, so fragile. Sherlock smiled at John, as he sipped the broth, drinking down vitamins and minerals that would help him fight off cancer. Every little bit helped, and Sherlock would make sure John ate whenever he could. He would gain those twenty pounds back before Sherlock stopped fussing, pestering, or generally needling the man. John ate slowly, as Sherlock told him to, and he desperately wanted the promised reward. He didn't want to make the effort of eating this soup only to throw it all up again shortly after. The chemotherapy would drain his strength enough without the lack of food, so John needed to store up as much now as he possibly could. Steadily, John ladled soup into his mouth until he finished the bowl. Setting the spoon down and placing the bowl on the small table beside the bed, John sighed and settled back into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock kissed John's neck, "Thank you." 

Lithe fingers pressed the button to lower the bed to a slightly more reclined position before pressing the nurse button and settling John into a soothing position in Sherlock's long arms. His deep voice thanked the nurse after she collected the tray and asked her to shut the blinds and the door when she left. Sherlock listened for the click of the door closing, then sighed. Finally alone with John again. 

"How do you feel?" He ran his hands in soothing tracks up and down John's sides--from his chest to his hips and back. The doctor smiled again, allowing Sherlock to tug him back until he was reclined against lithe muscles under delicate porcelain skin. They both watched as the nurse collected the tray and obeyed the sort-of-but-not-really request, and leaving them entirely alone. He hummed at the gentle caresses, leaning further back into Sherlock's hold.

"I'm alright. Not so bad at the moment." Hands more familiar with tuning microscopes than giving affection glided along John's bare arms, drawing a shiver from his relaxed form. "Keep doing that, and I may never want to leave."

"Liar." The hands didn't stop, but they did shift from running over arms and sides to running over chest and stomach, "You hate this place nearly as much as I do."

"You caught me," John whispered, reveling in the tingles spreading through him at Sherlock's touch. 

"Shh, John. Just relax and let your body process the food. We can talk in half an hour. If you are still interested in talking, then." Sherlock's voice shifted from clear deep tones to heated smoke. John closed his eyes and tried to imagine what Sherlock would do when John kept the food in his stomach for the full 30 minutes. How fingers would glide across his skin, raising goosebumps, and pulling reactions from him, willingly or not. Minutes passed like days as they waited out the self-imposed time limit, but Sherlock never stopped stroking his hands over John's form, never stopped nuzzling into the soft hair on his head. 

"I need to shower. I feel disgusting."

"Maybe we can arrange a sponge bath." Sherlock's voice sounded far off, like he spoke from within a dream instead of right behind John in the same bed.

"I would rather a real shower. I want to wash my hair, and do more than push the dirt around." John said, head lolling against Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Then I will join you." 

"What!?" The curt reply surprised John enough to have him sitting up.

"I am not letting you bathe alone, John. You are still tired and I will not risk you falling down and hurting yourself." 

"There is a bench in the shower stall, Sherlock. I think I'll be fine." John replied, a little indignant at the insinuation that he could not take care of himself any longer.

"I just want to help. Please?" Christ. If Sherlock used that beaten puppy look every time he asked to 'help' John, John would never be able to say no. Sky blue turned to murky grey with hurt and sorrow, and John couldn't take the guilt settling in his chest. 

"Oh, for God's sake...alright, fine." John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood on legs as shaky as a newborn foal's. "Come on, then." 

Needing no further permission, Sherlock stood behind John and supported him into the bathroom. With the door firmly shut and locked, Sherlock began the lengthy process of unsnapping, untying, and untangling John's hospital gown from his trembling form without accidentally snagging the IV. Only twenty minutes had elapsed since John finished his meal, but the detective needed physical contact as much as the doctor at this point, so for each snap that popped open, a butterfly kiss fell on the exposed skin. Eventually, John stood naked and shivering in the sterile bathroom, every inch of his shoulders, neck, back, and arms bearing the tingling reminder of gentle kisses. 

John allowed Sherlock to lead him over to the solid bench, with uncomfortable, narrow holes along the seat, and sat down on the icy plastic. After draping John's rigid shoulders with one of the relatively soft towels, Sherlock moved to turn on the water and set the temperature to just under scalding. Just the way John liked his showers, judging by the deep red color of his skin whenever the detective caught him exiting the bathroom in their flat. Stripping quickly, Sherlock moved back over to John, tossed the towel over the nearby hook, and pulled the trembling body against his own.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, backing toward the heavy stream of water. Having seen John sans clothing on a number of occasions did not make the detective immune to the truly beautiful sight of lightly tanned, taught flesh covering bone and muscle wasting away from malnutrition. John was beautiful, but the evidence of his illness still made Sherlock's heart hurt and his fists clench in self-directed anger. 

John, however, only ever caught glimpses of Sherlock without his clothing. The most he'd seen of that graceful form, had been at Buckingham palace, when the sheet caught beneath an unyielding boot dropped to reveal miles of pale, smooth skin and lean muscles. Sherlock possessed the form, and all the inherent grace, of a dancer--all long lines and flowing stride, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him. Now, with all that delicious skin on display and pressed to his own, John found it hard to breathe for an entirely non-cancer related reason. He found himself growing hard imagining all he wanted to do to the man in front of him. Every spot he wanted to lick, bite, stroke, or kiss, and now he could. The insistent press of Sherlock's erection against his stomach, let John know how much Sherlock wanted him as well-even with his potentially short life-span. 

"Yes, I'm ready." 'In more ways than one,' John finished silently. They backed under the spray of water, letting it soak into weary muscles and unruly hair, while four hands trailed over water-slick skin. Sherlock grabbed the shampoo Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to bring, and proceeded to gently massage it in to John's scalp, making sure to run his nails gently through the follicles with every other pass. 

"Sherlock," John breathed. Desire settled warm in the pit of his stomach, and the base of his cock. Christ, but it had been a while since he last got off. Lately, John felt too tired to even wank. 

"Yes, love?" Sherlock could HEAR the smug smile in his own voice. "Do you need something?"

"No." Soapy water cascaded over John's head as Sherlock rinsed the suds from his hair. "My turn." Picking the peppermint shampoo bottle up off the floor, John looked up at Sherlock through spiky, dark lashes. "You'll need to lean down a little, so I can reach."

Sherlock grinned, "Naturally." 

"Cheeky bugger." John muttered, jerking Sherlock down by his arm and scrubbing the bubbles into luxurious, soft curls. A hand trailed down John's stomach and curled gently around his erection, stroking along the length slowly. "Sherlock!"

A deep chuckle rumbled out of the detective's chest--the chest John now rested his forehead against, groan working at the back of his throat. The hand gripping him tightened minutely and added a twist at the head, causing John's knees to tremble. 

"Do you touch yourself like this, John?" Sherlock alternated between teasing strokes and firm pulls. He loved the desperate moans coming out of John's mouth, proving the effect Sherlock had on the man.

"Yes." John murmured, not sure if he meant to answer the question or comment on the rightness of Sherlock's actions and words.

"What do you think of when you touch yourself? When you stroke your cock in the shower or at night while you lay in bed? Who do you picture touching you? Licking you? Sucking you?" His voice curled around John in velvet waves.

"You." He managed to choke out on another helpless moan, "Oh, God, Sherlock. I think of you. Always you." 

"Good." Sherlock tilted John's chin up with his free hand before sealing their mouths together in a heated kiss. John refused to be the only one moaning and keening with embarrassing frequency, so he reached down Sherlock's lean torso and grasped his length, mirroring Sherlock's strokes on his member. 

"Huh! John, no. This is supposed to be about you." Sherlock threw his head back in pleasure, fighting to control his body's responses to the stimulation. It felt so good to have John touching him at last. 

"If this is about me, then I say you shut it and let me do what I want," John nibbled along the brunette's jaw and down his throat, "And I want to hear you cum, screaming my name."

"John." A heady moan vibrated in Sherlock's chest and into John at the points they connected. In response to the teasing, he increased his own pace until his hand flew over John's erection, thumb dragging over the head and smearing pre-cum along the way. "After you."

"Shit!" The pleasure built fast, sparking along John's spine, lighting up the nerves all along his body, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer. John pressed his thumb against Sherlock's frenulum and swept it up across his glans with every upstroke. When the clever fingers dragging him toward the edge copied the move, John couldn't stop himself from tumbling over the edge. With a cry of Sherlock's name and an involuntary jerk of his hips John spilled into Sherlock's hand and over his stomach.

By some miracle, he had enough presence of mind to keep jerking Sherlock off, adding a twist and firm squeeze at the head. The combination of John's hand on his cock, his cry of Sherlock's name, and the gorgeous expression on his face as he came sent Sherlock spiraling into his own orgasm. 

"John!" He cried out, his knees buckling under the waves of pleasure, "Fuck."

They both lowered to the white tile floor, warmed by the steady stream of water, and tried to catch their breaths. Hearts pounded in synchronized rhythm, and muscles spasmed with decreasing frequency and intensity. Sherlock and John exchanged lazy kisses until their breathing slowed and they felt strong enough to finish their shower.

"I thought the point of this shower was to get clean." John grinned, "Not that I'm complaining or anything."

"You kept the soup down for a full thirty minutes. I told you I would do something to help relieve tension." Quirking an imperious eyebrow, which was impressive with dark hair dripping into Sherlock's pale eyes and John's semen washing from his stomach down the drain, "Do you feel tense, now?"

Instead of answering, John threw his head back and laughed. A full belly-laugh that made both men feel lighter--less like the world was falling down around them.

"Will this be how you help me whenever I'm tense in the future, because that's an idea I can get behind." John chuckled.

"Of course not, John." Sherlock waited until John's face fell a little with disappointment, "I need to try other methods for accurate data points."

"Only you." John dragged his lover into a deep kiss, "At least this experiment will be fun for BOTH of us." 

They stood on shaky legs and finished their shower with gentle sweeps of hands and even gentler kisses. Once they were clean, dry, and dressed, Sherlock pulled John against his side on the hospital bed, placing kisses into his hair and breathing in the smell of him. John nuzzled into the detective's neck, sighing with genuine contentment. 

"I love you, John." John lifted his head to lock eyes with the crystal blue gaze of his lover. 

"I love you, too, Sherlock." They kissed and wished the world would fade, wished cancer didn't exist, and John wasn't potentially terminally ill. They prayed for each other and a future that looked so murky, neither of them could pick out details, and they held on tight to their other half. They drifted to sleep hoping the world wouldn't tear them apart so soon after finding one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all make my life so much better with your positive comments, enthusiasm, and support. Thank you!


	13. The Past is Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the lives of the Holmes family before the death of the matriarch.

Wracking coughs echoed down halls lined with cream colored paint and rich ruby accents. The glistening hard wood floors punched the sound up to the vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers, where it bounced before ricocheting back. The library hid behind two imposing oak doors with polished gold handles, and offered the residents of the household a momentary escape from work or school. On the dust free shelves, every book in print, and some out of print, waited for curious hands to pluck them up and disappear inside the information or story covering the pages. Every member of the Holmes family was an avid reader, as the practice expanded the creativity, vocabulary, and knowledge base of the reader. Bred for intelligence and cunning, the Holmes boys followed their father's orders to read religiously. 

Mycroft preferred the intrigue of the political field, while Sherlock became enamored with the intricacies of science, specifically chemistry, but biology had some merit as well. Every evening, since their second birthday, each boy wandered into the library, perched on an emerald velvet chair or the jewel-toned Persian rug by the fire and listened to or read from one of the many books. By the age of five, Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to be: a doctor. Not just ANY doctor, but a neurosurgeon. It would be his job to understand the human thought process, and how the chemicals inherent in the brain affected patterns of behavior, influenced health, or fought off illness. He would know how to obliterate any disease from which the brain could suffer, and he could experiment and research to his heart's content. Before Sherlock turned 14, that would all change.

The Holmes family matriarch had seen better days, but her husband prized a backbone and strength above all else. Violetta Simone Lecomte-Vernet would be damned before she would complain over a little bout of the flu. This particular strain proved more stubborn than any Violetta experienced before, but with the typical antibiotics and some well-earned bed rest, she would be feeling like her old self again. Besides, she thought, her boys needed her. Siger Holmes ran the household with an iron will, and Violetta took it upon herself to ensure her sons grew up knowing the love of a mother, at least she did whenever Siger could not see the 'distasteful' displays of affection. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, giving the Holmes line more wealth and the Vernet's more political connections. 

While she felt some affection for the man she called husband, the reasons she stayed were the two little boys who stole her heart the moment they opened their big gray eyes. First, Mycroft entered the world as a squirming, pale bundle with a tuft of ginger curls atop his adorable face. Being her first child, Violetta expected a great deal of crying and very little time for sleep, but Mycroft barely cried at all. Instead, he remained as silent as his father until he needed something, such as food or a change. Conversely, her second child entered the world screaming as loudly as his little lungs would allow. The moment the nurses placed the little brunette in her arms, the crying stopped and clear, crystalline eyes locked with her own. Violetta had felt her heart squeeze. Her two little miracles. Another fit of coughs had her doubling over her embroidered handkerchief. 

"Mother!" Sherlock ran around the corner at the end of the long hall, and careened toward Violetta. Thirteen years old and the boy had more energy than a minor star--he shone like one, too. Violetta discreetly tucked the red stained silk in the pocket of her skirt, then opened her arms to catch her youngest son.

"Hello, darling. What have you been up to today?" 

"I did it! I played The Devil's Trill!" Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, clasping her hand tightly in excitement.

"You did?" Violetta enthused, "That's wonderful! I hope you will play it again, for Mycroft and me?"

"Okay. Do you think Mycroft will mind? I know he's been busy lately." Pale gray eyes, so like her own, shifted to little feet, scuffing the hardwood floor. "Father said their work is important and Mycroft should focus on learning to navigate the current political field."

"Oh, darling," Violetta pulled Sherlock into a hug, trying to keep the wheeze out of her voice, "I am sure Mycroft would love to hear you play. You know how much he enjoys hearing the violin, especially when he is thinking."

"I don't want to get him into trouble." The voice, once filled with excitement, now sounded small.

"Look at me, Sherlock." She crouched down to his level, knowing she would not have to for much longer, "Your brother loves you, and so do I. Everyone needs to take a break now and again, including your father. We will just make sure Mycroft's next break involves a private concert from a renowned violinist."

Those cat eyes brightened, "Who?"

"You, silly! You are the best violinist I know." 

"You have to say that. You're my mother." Sherlock grinned.

"That doesn't make it any less true." Violetta pulled the handkerchief back out just in time to cover her mouth and try to clear her lungs. This fit lasted a full minute, and when she finally regained control over her breathing, Violetta looked up into the worried face of her son.

"Are you ill, Mother? You should see the doctor." A small hand brushed a wayward tear from Violetta's cheek.

"Nonsense." She tried to smile, "It's just a small cold. I will be better soon enough."

"You said that two months ago," his eyes went steel bright, "and now you are coughing up blood." Before she could put the silk in her pocket, Sherlock caught it and tugged it from her hand.

"My throat is just dry from the cold weather. That's all." No one would ever be able to say her children were not observant.

"Mother..." Sherlock's face softened, his eyes begging when his body would not, "please? If it's just a cold, then the doctors will give you the appropriate medication so you will get better faster, and if it isn't just a cold..."

Looking into that cherubic face, how could any mother refuse? Sherlock was right, anyway. Either she had a cold and the doctors would help, or she did not have a cold and they would tell her what made her chest seize with spasms. Siger would never have to know, Violetta thought. She would go see her physician the next day. A smile claimed her mouth again.

"Alright, Sherlock. I will see the physician tomorrow. Now," Violetta glanced at her watch, took the soiled cloth from her son, and replaced it with her hand, "Mycroft and your father will be breaking for tea. Let's go surprise them." 

Sherlock smiled at her, but the light never reached his eyes. Hopefully, the impromptu performance and the compliments from Mycroft, herself, and the servants would be enough to put a true smile back on his face. Her children should never be sad or worried. Not if she could prevent it. Violetta would see the physician, as promised, and take the medication prescribed to her, then focus on cheering up her boys with a picnic. The weather would be warm enough by the weekend, and they always loved feeding the ducks by the pond. Mind made up, mother and son walked hand in hand down the hall and into the study.

That was two months ago. Today, Sherlock watched a new "physician" hook his mother up to an IV stand and heart monitor. Her dark curls, once vibrant, now hung limp around her gaunt face. Cheekbones cut violent slashes under sunken, weary slate eyes, and her once full lips were now pale and chapped. The proud figure of Violetta Holmes lay broken, hulled out, on the starched white sheets of the hospital bed, while the useless men claiming to be the best doctors in their respective fields hovered around her, pandering, hoping for a handout. It was, in his opinion, disgusting. 

For two MONTHS his mother passed from doctor to doctor, rapidly getting worse, as they each diagnosed her with something different and relatively harmless. Allergies. A cold. Influenza. Pneumonia. Bronchitis. Tuberculosis. The list went on and on. Not one of the doctors bothered to run the proper tests. Only the last doctor even bothered with a simple chest x-ray--after the mass appeared large enough to see on the bloody image! Blood tests, CT scans, thoracentesis, bronchoscopy, PET scan, and finally a biopsy, all to determine the type of cancer. Just the TYPE. A mediastinoscopy, an endoscopic ultrasound, more CT scans, two MRIs, and one bone scan later the moderately less useless doctor had a verdict.

The Holmes men gathered in the aptly named "family room," to hear what the idiot had to say. They did not have to wait long.

"Stage 4 Squamous Cell Carcinoma." The doctor paused, Sherlock could only assume for dramatic effect, before droning on, "I'm afraid it has spread to the lymph nodes, and the brain. Mr. Holmes, your wife has six mets on her brain and the tumor in her lungs is inoperable. At this point...the only thing we can do is palliative care."

Sherlock stared at the incompetent fool, trying to calm his breathing, and stop the tremors running through every muscle in his body, making him vibrate with rage. Palliative care? PALLIATIVE CARE? He waited for the deep, cold voice of his father to slice the man into ribbons for daring to offer a non-solution to the Holmes family. All that ice in his father's veins would finally come in handy when Siger Holmes calmly extended a well-manicured hand to grip the 'doctor's' throat and SQUEEZE--or maybe his father would simply rip the man's throat out as a violent warning to all the other pretentious, pointless physicians who would offer the same diagnosis. 

"I understand. See she is kept free of pain." Calm and efficient, the smooth rumble carried the unfeeling words into the room and dropped them on Sherlock's heart, crushing it under so much weight, he nearly fell to his knees. That was it?

"That's all you have to say?" Disbelief colored his voice, and it took a moment for Sherlock to realize he spoke aloud.

"What more is there to say?" The man, his father, asked with no more emotion than if he were choosing a tie for his latest meeting. 

"How about 'I want a second opinion,' or 'That is not a treatment plan.' You don't even look upset. Mother is laying in that dull hospital room DYING, and you can't even be bothered to feel perturbed? Do you have any emotions at all? Did you even LIKE her, or was she merely a means to an end?" The words poured out, one after another, leaving Sherlock breathless and shaking. Furious with the doctors, the hospital, the disease, but especially with Siger. 

"The doctors have done all they can, so I will ensure she lives out the rest of her life with as little pain as possible. What else would you have me do, Sherlock? Can you save her?" 

Silence, so thick Sherlock heard the curtains rustle down the hall. No one else heard the blow land. Only Sherlock. Only he felt the sting of those words after they slammed into his brain. It hurt. Nothing in his short thirteen years had ever prepared him for the pain he felt at Siger's careless accusation. That's what it was. An accusation. Because, the bastard was right. Sherlock couldn't help his mother any more than the self-proclaimed 'best' oncologist. All the doctors in the world couldn't help his mother now. Turning away from the man he once called father, Sherlock ran. He ran through halls, doors, streets, and grass. He ran until he thought his lungs might collapse and his legs felt boneless. When he stopped, Sherlock found himself standing next to the pond where he and Mycroft fed ducks while Mother set up their picnic.

Tears bubbled up in his throat and spilled out in an endless wail of anguish. His knees gave out, tumbling Sherlock to the ground where he curled into a ball and sobbed, where Siger would never think to look and Mycroft would never bother. Tears fell like shards of glass, tearing away pieces of him each time a new one fell. Why his mother? Why not Siger? Why did she have to die? His brain kept spinning in circles until the only thing he could focus on was that last question--why did she have to die?

26 days, 5 hours, 47 minutes, and 15 seconds after the diagnosis Violetta Simone Lecomte-Vernet Holmes took her last rattling breath while her husband and eldest son stood stoically at the foot of the bed, and her youngest clutched her hand as if he could hold her soul in her body if he just gripped her tight enough. 27 days, 5 hours, 53 minutes, and 12 seconds later, Sherlock watched as his mother's casket descended 7 feet, 9 and 3/4 inches into the earth. Tears once again flowed freely down his face, the 13-year-old genius no longer caring what anyone thought of him. In the final days leading up to her death, Sherlock looked to Mycroft for answers, hoping the extra years had given the elder Holmes boy some wisdom or knowledge he didn't have at the inconvenient age of thirteen, but no. Mycroft watched the proceeding with all the emotions of dryer lint. 

Siger and Mycroft watched Sherlock's mother deteriorate, and offered her no comfort, no kind words, or gentle touches to make her smile. For the first time in his life, Sherlock HATED. He hated doctors and cancer, he hated needles and heart monitors, he hated useless platitudes offered by brown-nosing officials, and he hated Siger Holmes. 

'Ah,' he thought, as his brain re-engaged and the pieces of the puzzle began to settle in place, 'So, that's why.'

He loved his mother, and she lay under a heavy layer of soil and sod. He hated Siger, and he stood statue-still on the right ride of the rectangular space. Alive. He hated those doctors and they continued to draw in breath. Sherlock loved his dog, and Harvey, named after the father of modern neurosurgery, Harvey Cushing, had been buried next to the pond after Siger's driver accidentally hit him while taking Siger to the office. He hated Dr. George Purnell, the first in the long line of doctors who wasted precious time with multiple misdiagnosis, and he still waddled around the London streets, taking up space which could be occupied by more intelligent, more honorable men and women. Following this pattern, everything Sherlock loved died, while everything he hated continued on, seemingly without end. 

Drying his eyes, Sherlock walked away from his mother's grave in the family plot behind their house--which would never feel like home again now that Violetta had taken the warmth with her to the grave. If everything he loved died, then the solution was simple. Sherlock Holmes would not love anything. He couldn't hate the brother who had spent hours reading stories to him when his mind wouldn't still enough for sleep. The brother who had hugged him after discovering Sherlock crying in his wardrobe when Harvey died. The one who listened to every violin piece Sherlock played, and smiled in approval when Sherlock made it all the way through a difficult piece without a mistake. He couldn't hate that Mycroft Holmes, but he could hate the person he became. The glacial boy who didn't so much as reach out a hand to the mother who did her best to love them both. Who hadn't cried for their, no, for Sherlock's mother once her heart stopped beating. Who looked and acted exactly like Siger Holmes. He could, and would, hate that Mycroft. And he would NEVER be a doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support. The next chapter will focus on John's first chemo session, and Sherlock's coping mechanisms.


	14. Hand In My Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make a couple new friends, and begin to face their new reality.

A pale face and lifeless, pale eyes stare blankly at the white tiled ceiling. Voices prattle on offering insincere condolences, and trite apologies for being too late in contacting the Holmes patriarch. Slowly, so very slowly, Sherlock moves toward the familiar form sprawled over the thin hospital bed, breath held and heart racing in his chest next to lungs rendered as useless as those in the figure of his mother. Limp, dark curls similar to his own fall across the wafer thin pillow. No. Not dark hair. Pale, gold strands. Not long and curly, but short, straight, waxy. His hands begin to shake the closer he steps to the figure who steadily shrinks before his wide eyes. The body no longer bares feminine curves, instead the sunken chest appears broad beneath equally broad shoulders. Skin Sherlock thought had been a disturbingly translucent white, now took on the sickly yellow tone of someone who has died while lightly tanned. 

The harsh sheets scratch against his arm as he reaches forward to touch the hand he knew would be smooth, as expected from a socialite, but as his fingers brush the palm he encounters callouses inherent in a person who has seen combat. Fingers used to wielding an M-16 as easily as they used a scalpel curl lightly over the palm. Sherlock's fingers move along the exposed arm, baring numerous bruises and puncture marks in the crook of the elbow, as tears well in his eyes. Stopping his fingers once they reach the sleeve of the thin cotton hospital gown, he continues the horrifying analysis of the person in front of him. The voices rise steadily until Sherlock feels the need to cover his ears, but he can't. He can't move his body anymore. Paralyzed. 

Tears spill down his cheeks and his heart wrenches against his rib cage as his eyes continue to trek across those broad, unmoving shoulders and up a familiar throat. Blonde stubble creeps over a strong chin and sallow cheeks, and air hitches in Sherlock's lungs, choking in his throat, sobbing out of his mouth. Tears fall without pause as stormy grays finally lock on empty blues, and the voices jolt to a sudden stop. 

"No," Sherlock whispers into the silence, sobs wrenching from him, and tearing at his throat. A keening, broken noise erupts from deep in his heart as Sherlock sinks to the ground in front of the bed, which never gets any higher. Instead, it follows his descent to the ground, allowing his eyes to remain locked on the broken form of Dr. John H. Watson. "No."

He reaches forward to grasp the thin shoulders of his flatmate, "Wake up. Please?"

Nothing. The figure doesn't move an inch, so Sherlock begins to shake him. When nothing changes, he begins to shake him harder, until his head flops bonelessly back and forth on the pillow, eyes still staring ahead with no signs of distress or recognition. No spark of life. 

"Please? John! Wake up! PLEASE! JOHN!? You're not dead! You can't be dead! You promised! PLEASE!?" Words tumble from his lips, broken only by wrenching sobs, "JOHN!" He screams.

"Sherlock! Wake up! Come on. Breathe. I'm right here, I promise. I'm right here." John felt tears fill his own eyes as he watched the usually stoic detective fall apart, beg, and plead with a dream John who had left him alone. "Sherlock, look at me. I'm right here, love." 

"John," Sherlock gasped, eyes popping open to shift blindly around the room. His hands clutched John's arms so tightly, he knew they would bruise.

"I'm here, Sherlock. Look at me." John waited until the watery gaze of his lover locked on his own, "That's it. See? I'm right here. You need to breathe, Sherlock. Deep, slow breaths, like this." He pulled one of Sherlock's clenching hands to his chest as he took in slow breaths, wincing at the inevitable rattle and slight hitching of air. 

"John?" God, he sounded like a frightened child waiting to be struck for some form of disobedience. The tears, John had managed to hold back escaped to run down his face, falling onto Sherlock's still heaving chest. "John?"

Sherlock raised the hand not pressed over John's steady heartbeat, and cupped the doctor's face gently in his palm. His eyes searched John's as if checking for signs that he might still be trapped in the nightmare, then he lurched forward, smashing his lips over John's, breathing in his strangled gasp of surprise. Wanting to comfort the shaking man beneath him, John kissed back with equal fervor. His fingers tunneled into the thick curls he loved so very much and pulled. Hard.

A startled gasp tore out of Sherlock, and he jerked back into the painful pull of John's fingers, staring at him with wide, searching eyes.

"I'm right here, Sherlock. This is real. You were having a bad dream." John watched as Sherlock slowly came to, never taking his eyes off John's face. Because their eyes were locked, John saw the struggle to get his emotions in check in the detective's eyes. He wouldn't let him retreat entirely into his mind. John used the grasp he still had on those dark curls to pull Sherlock in for a gentle series of kisses. They didn't need to devolve into full on snogging, he just wanted to re-establish the emotional link they shared the night before. 

"John," Sherlock breathed, lips lingering over John's. Hands that had gripped, not smoothed through the doctor's hair, down his back, and along his sides, dragging a sigh from him. Almost eight solid hours of sleep, and John still felt weary. Sherlock slowly pulled away from John to lay back in his original position, "I'm sorry."

Those words pulled John up short, "For what?"

"So many things, but in this case I was referring to waking you up. I know you need to rest." He sounded truly contrite...and sad. Not, I've-spilled-my-cuppa sad, but my-best-friend-has-terminal-cancer sad, and it tugged on John's heart. Going with instinct, John leaned up to kiss Sherlock gently, but as deeply as he could.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I..." John very nearly said he was fine, before common sense, and an image of Sherlock's patented 'you're an idiot' look, slapped his mouth shut. Instead he said, "Will you tell me about it?"

Fear. Irrational and irritating fear crept into Sherlock's mind and, no doubt, his eyes as he stared at John. COULD he tell John about it? About the nightmare that now ran in perpetual repeat behind his eyes? About the superimposed image of a dead John lying in the same bed his mother had been in when Sherlock had last seen her alive? He hadn't told ANYONE about that moment. Not even the plethora of therapists, and child psychologists Siger had sent him to after seeing him cry at the funeral, knew the whole story surrounding the death of benevolent emotions in him. He had been so meticulous with the extraction, no one suspected he ever had those emotions to begin with--until John. John suspected, knew, Sherlock had failed to eradicate those useless feelings, had only succeeded in burying them deep enough to avoid detection by anyone who cared to look. Anyone except John. 

"Yes," Sherlock murmured before he could dwell on all the reasons this was a terrible idea. "I'll tell you."

John stared down into Sherlock's exhausted eyes, and waited patiently for him to begin. Minutes ticked by and Sherlock opened his mouth over and over, only to close it and swallow down the lump that formed to block his voice--to stop the inevitable string of words which would condemn Sherlock in John's eyes.

"Could you not look at me while I tell you?" He finally managed to push words through the block, refusing to meet John's eyes. God, he was such a coward. Gentle fingers caught his chin and tilted his face until Sherlock couldn't help meeting the warm blue eyes of his lover.

"There is nothing you could tell me that would make me think less of you, Sherlock." Compassion and love vied for space in John's beautiful eyes, and Sherlock felt his heart seize for the umpteenth time since this nightmare began two days--had it really been so short a time?--ago. 

"What if I told you I killed someone?"

"Then, I am sure you had a very good reason." Now, gentle affection wove through John's voice, warming Sherlock with his almost defiant belief in the goodness of Sherlock's soul. Unable to resist, Sherlock caught John in another consuming kiss. "I love you," John said as they broke apart, gaze steady on Sherlock's, "That will NEVER change."

"I..." he hesitated, "I understand you believe you will always love me..."

"No." John's voice was firm, his eyes warm but hard, "I don't believe, Sherlock. I've had as much time as you to come to terms with my feelings for you. Do you only believe you love me?"

"No!" The words emerged almost as a yell. "No," Sherlock said, quieter, "I love you, John. I am sure."

"Then, believe me when I tell you I feel the same." John said, a pleading edge to his voice. Sherlock's eyes softened.

"I do." He said.

"Good."

"I still would prefer you to not look at me when I tell you about my mother. Not," Sherlock hurried to explain, "because I believe you will think any less of me. It is...difficult for me to speak of her."

"Okay." With one last lingering kiss, John settled his head on Sherlock's shoulder, just like their position when they both fell asleep. He nuzzled into the warm skin under Sherlock's jaw, releasing a content sigh, and waited for the detective to begin.

Telling the story proved easier than Sherlock expected, with the warm weight of John against his chest, in his arms. He talked about the impromptu concerts and warm smiles, the hugs and laughter, the pilfered sweets proffered during clandestine picnics. The moments when Mycroft would thaw enough to smile at Sherlock and tell him how proud he was of his little brother's intellect or skill with the violin. Once Sherlock began, he couldn't stem the flow of words, then he couldn't stop the rush of emotion choking him, forcing bitter tears down his face. Through it all, John remained silent, merely pressing his lips to Sherlock's jaw or hugging him tightly. When he spoke of the conclusion he arrived at during his mother's funeral, Sherlock felt cool drops against his throat, realizing with surprise that John was crying for him.

After an hour of talking about his mother, Sherlock felt he had explained everything sufficiently and fell silent, taking comfort in the fact that John had not pulled away from him yet. Instead, John settled further into his arms, fine tremors running though his body. The tremors John felt were comprised of intense anger for Siger Holmes and immense sorrow for Violetta Holmes, who had managed to encourage love in an otherwise emotionally sterile environment. Mycroft had been old enough to choose when to distance himself from feelings, but Sherlock never had a chance. Clutching him tighter, John thanked every deity he could think of that Sherlock had not managed to adopt the same serpentine nature as his 'father.' 

"That's how you knew what was, IS, wrong with me," John murmured into Sherlock's throat, "I have the same symptoms your mum did."

"Yes."

"It's not your fault, Sherlock. None of it. You know that, right?" John pushed himself up onto shaking arms, his muscles too tired to offer sturdier support.

"I should have insisted she visit a physician. I should have noticed how sick you had become." Sherlock looked petulantly up at John, reaching up to offer additional support without conscious thought.

"Bollocks," John said.

"I am a trained observer!" He insisted with wide eyes.

"Not when you were a child, Sherlock."

"And with you?" He hissed.

"If I want to hide something from you, I will." Sherlock started to protest, but John cut him off. "I wore my bulkiest jumpers to hide the weight loss, and I kept going to work even though I felt exhausted. I continued life as usual. How the hell were you supposed to notice anything out of the ordinary when I went out of my way to make sure there was nothing to notice?"

"But..."

"You didn't even notice my feelings for you until I bloody told you!" Sherlock's face settled into a mulish pout.

"I wasn't looking for it."

"Exactly!" John said triumphantly. "You weren't looking for illness either." His voice became softer as he spoke. "None of this is your fault." 

Sherlock stared at John, as the doctor willed him to believe what he said. Sherlock sighed, knowing he would not win this particular battle of wills, "Thank you."

A knock on the door had both men shifting to face it as a nurse entered quietly. 

"Sorry to wake you. I just need to check your blood pressure, and a couple other things, then you can rest until your appointment. Would you like some breakfast? Your chart says you are scheduled for your first round of chemo at 10 this morning, so if you order breakfast now, you should have time for your stomach to settle before they take you to the treatment room." The nurse bustled about as she spoke, "I'll bring in the anti-nausea medication with your food."

Once the too cheerful for this early in the morning nurse had checked his vitals and left, Sherlock turned his eyes back to John's face. 

"Do you think you can stomach any foods?" As he asked, Sherlock reached for the cup of water on the table and offered it to John. He sipped at the tepid water slowly, and considered his options. 

"The nausea medication will help, so I should probably eat something. Chemotherapy treatments take a while, and I might get hungry." John handed the cup back to Sherlock, receiving a kiss on the temple in the process.

"Yes, I believe that is a good idea. Maybe something light? Toast, perhaps?" Sherlock stared at John as if he could deduce what he would order simply by staring at him--he probably could, too. At John's nod of approval, Sherlock picked up the phone and ordered toast, scrambled eggs, tea, and orange juice.

"You're not eating?" He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the detective as if daring him to say no. With a resigned sigh and a light grimace, Sherlock doubled the order. John nodded in smug approval, watching him replace the receiver. 

Breakfast passed relatively uneventfully, with light kisses and warm smiles exchanged over tea cups and toast. John didn't know if he would ever get used to this affectionate side of Sherlock, but he appreciated the opportunity to try. Maybe this explained why none of John's other relationships panned out. He knew no one else could ever compete with Sherlock Holmes. Time ticked by far too quickly for John's liking, and before he realized it, ten o'clock rolled around. 

The nurse tried to help him into a wheelchair, but Sherlock proceeded to outline all of her failings, ripping her confidence to shreds and making her leave with a huff, much to John's frustration, so the younger Holmes ended up wheeling John down the halls. 

"Was that really necessary?" He asked, while Sherlock pushed him toward the treatment room.

"She nearly yanked out your IV, John. I will not tolerate incompetence. Add to the fact, she tried to touch you, and I feel my observations were completely necessary." John sighed, but didn't argue further. The tug on the IV HAD hurt, after all, and the nurse seemed more angry than upset, so he couldn't feel too badly about the incident. 

"Dear God." Sherlock muttered, halting in the doorway to the treatment room. John had to agree with the sentiment, as the room looked hideous and childish at the same time. The walls sported lime green paint behind what appeared to be finger-painted versions of classical works of art. Over the tacky, poor recreations arched a garish rainbow covered in glitter. 

"Hideous, isn't it." John's eyes swung to a stout man in his late 50's. His face crinkled in disgust, pushing a red bandanna further up his forehead, as he glanced at the walls, "It wouldn't be so bad if this was where they treated the kids, too."

"You mean to tell me there is ANOTHER, equally grotesque room for adolescents?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

"No." This time a woman in her mid 50's spoke up. She sat next to the man, one hand clasped in his, while the other flipped through a magazine on her lap, "The room for the children is much nicer." 

John snorted, and the couple grinned, "First time here?" The man asked.

"That obvious, is it?" John asked.

"You get to know faces pretty well around here," the woman responded as she stood and walked over to them. "I'm Gloria, and this handsome delinquent is my husband James."

John took her hand, shaking it gently, "I'm John, and this is Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Now, where have I heard that name before?" Gloria stared at Sherlock's face, tilting her head in concentration as James rolled his eyes fondly.

"Leave them alone, Gloria. She thinks she knows everyone," He smiled, and shrugged.

"I do not... Oh!" Gloria reached out and grasped Sherlock's hand as John looked on with a grin, "Sherlock Holmes! You're that detective who helps the police find solve all those cases, right?" 

Despite the unwelcome touches, Sherlock found a smile creeping onto his face, his shoulders straightening with pride, "Yes."

"That means you're John Watson, yes?" Gloria released Sherlock's hand to grasp John's.

"That would be me." He smiled.

"I love your blog! Oh, the adventures you two get up to are such fun to read." She beamed, "I wondered why there were no new posts lately." Her face fell as she watched John sit next to one of the IV stands and get hooked up for treatment. "How advanced?"

"Stage 3." John said, trying not to cringe, "Lung cancer."

"Oh, sweetheart." Gloria saw Sherlock sit down next to John and take his hand, squeezing it in an attempt to offer comfort, "I'm so sorry."

"I'm a stage 4." James took Gloria's hand, placing a gentle kiss on the back of it as she regained her seat next to him, "A matter of months, they tell me."

"James..." Gloria shook her head. 

"I'm sorry." John stared at Sherlock, surprised and proud of the sincerity behind those pale eyes.

"Any advice?" John asked, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"Do you have a pen?" James and Gloria asked in unison before bursting into peals of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys are awesome! Almost 100 kudos...I can't even process it. Thank you. This story will be about 25 chapters and I know exactly where it is going, so thank you for travelling with me. Enjoy.


	15. Some Days You're the Hydrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock hear more about John's immediate future and the ramifications of his insidious disease.

“No.” Sherlock spoke with no sarcasm or derision in his voice, but the laughter stopped quite suddenly. “We did not think we needed to bring writing implements to a chemotherapy session.”

Silence greeted this declaration—John smiled fondly, James looked on with owlish eyes, Sherlock looked like a confused puppy (complete with curious head tilt), and Gloria couldn’t seem to decide whether to grin or laugh. Her decision became clear half a second later, when the woman burst into peals of laughter again. 

“Oh, I like you.” She announced between small chuckles, “I was worried you would be different in person than you are in the blog, since John wrote it, but you aren’t. You are exactly how I pictured you.”

“You’ve been picturing him, have you?” An eyebrow rose as James eyed his wife with suspicion. “Was this before or after we shagged?”

“James Weston!” Gloria looked scandalized, “Honestly. These new pills have made you so gobby.” 

John grinned at the couple. They were an adorable pair—might have passed for a younger version of his parents in fact. Gloria, with her light blonde hair streaked with white and her bubbly nature could have been a double of his mum. With James, though, he couldn't quite tell. His father died when John reached his seventh birthday so, aside from a few photos his mum had shown him, he had no idea what his father was like. James looked relatively fit, considering he suffered from stage 4 lung cancer, patches of short, light chestnut hair peppered with gray poked out from under the red bandanna, and he sported a tan a little darker than John’s own. In short, John liked them already.

When John looked at Sherlock to gauge his reaction to the couple’s banter, he noted a mild blush high on the detective’s cheekbones and slightly widened eyes. He looks, John thought, surprised, shocked, and a bit embarrassed. Why would he be surprised? Sherlock knew he had a handsome face. He used that fact to his advantage on several cases that required delicate wheedling, including the time he faced Irene Adler. That name had his blood pressure rising before he knew it. John glanced at Sherlock again, come to find those sharp eyes focused on his own face with equal parts concern and confusion. 

“It’s quite alright.” Sherlock said as he continued to scrutinize his lover. “Judging by Gloria’s tone of voice and relaxed posture, and the fact that she looked directly at me while speaking, I deduce she was not referring to picturing me in a sexual manner, but in an idealized fictional manner. Strictly speaking,” he persisted when the occupants of the room, with the exception of John, gave him blank looks, “she imagined me as one might imagine a character one reads about in a novel. The person she imagined me to be is merely closer to reality than she expected.”

Gloria beamed while James smirked at Sherlock and said, “Yes, and using those same analytical skills you might deduce that, based on my tone and posture, I was taking the piss.”  
John lifted the hand grasped in his to his lips and placed a loving kiss on the back of it. 

“So I might.” Sherlock replied with a slight up tilt to the right side of his mouth. He leaned down, with no hesitation, and placed his lips on top of John’s head in what could only be called an affectionate peck.

The gesture appeared so natural, so loving, Gloria found herself clutching James’ hand to her chest and tearing up at the sight. The two men clearly loved each other a great deal.

“You two make a lovely couple.” Gloria said, holding tighter to James’ hand.

“Thank you.” John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock, but Gloria would swear she saw a sparkle in those deep blues. 

“Gloria, we still need to give them some pointers. We’re only here for another hour before they boot us out, so you may want to hop to. We don’t know how long John’s treatment is for.” James squeezed Gloria’s hand and looked to John.

“Oh, that’s right! I think I have my notebook here. Let me go see if they have a pen I can borrow from the nurse’s station. I’ll be back in a tick.” Gloria bounced to her feet with all the enthusiasm of a puppy in a new house full of very chew-friendly furniture. James gave her rump a pat as she skittered passed him to the door, making Gloria pause just long enough to glare at her husband. The effect might have been terrifying of she hadn’t been grinning at the same time.

Sherlock looked to James, “How long have you been coming in for treatment?”

“About 5 months now.” The looks on John and Sherlock’s faces must have told James how worried they were about such a long treatment plan because he continued in a hurry, 

“But I was diagnosed with stage 4 right out the gate. You said you have stage 3, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied.

“Three what?” James asked.

“What?” John tilted his head in confusion. “What do you mean three what?”

“Stage 3a or 3b?” James looked toward the door as Gloria bustled back in, pen held triumphantly in front of her.

“They had plenty of pens, as I thought. Oh,” She looked from face to face, “What did I miss?”

“I was asking if John’s a 3a or 3b.” 

“Oh, yes! That’s a good question. I hadn’t even thought to ask. That’s why I love you.” Gloria placed a solid kiss on James’ lips before reclaiming her seat next to him, “So?”

“Um…well, I don’t know, actually.” John scratched the back of his neck, feeling sheepish and ridiculous. Who didn’t know their own diagnosis? Idiots, that’s who.

“Don’t be silly, John. You were asleep when the doctor came to visit. He spoke to me about the chemotherapy, then left. I did not think to ask either. I’ve only ever seen stage 4 lung cancer, not that that excuses my lack of knowledge on the topic.” While he spoke Sherlock’s gaze shifted from John’s to their interlocked hands, where they remained for his admission about the specialist. 

“That is ridiculous!” Gloria, for the first time since meeting her, sounded truly outraged. Before John and Sherlock could apologize for their lack of information regarding John’s condition, Gloria leapt from her chair and stormed toward the door, disappearing out the door in a huff of rose scented air.

John turned wide eyes toward Sherlock, who looked ashamed, to James, who looked bemused.

“I did not mean to upset her.” Sherlock began as John squeezed his hand in a show of solidarity.

“Oh, she’s upset alright,” James’ smile turned into a tight frown as he turned his attention back to John. “One of the FIRST things the doctor should have done was tell you your bloody diagnosis. In its entirety. The fact that he or she didn’t shows a level of madness I didn’t think existed in the medical community. And I’ve seen a LOT of foolish decisions made.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a fraction as James ranted about the doctor’s shortcomings, “I should have asked.”

“Yes, because a person who just learned their lover has a potentially life-threatening disease should set aside all emotions and ask every question they can while they are so emotionally distressed he or she is unlikely to remember a word of it later.” Now, James looked exasperated. “My doctor had to explain everything to us five times, and the only reason we remember a word of it now, is Gloria, lord love her, took extensive notes the fifth time.”

“I have an eidetic memory.” Sherlock persisted. John tried to keep his head from whipping back and forth as the conversation shifted. He felt as if he were in a tennis match, and he genuinely hoped Sherlock lost this one.

“A what?” James asked.

“An eidetic memory. Commonly, though inaccurately referred to as a ‘photographic’ memory,” Christ, John could HEAR the air quotes and eye roll, “I remember every detail I see, hear, smell, touch, or taste as if I still stood in the middle of the events.”

“So what?” James glared, “It’s in the requirements, now. Every oncologist has to provide a print out of the diagnosis and treatment plan to the patient and the patient’s family. Were you even aware of this rule?”

“No.” Sherlock admitted, “My brother pushed for a quick and precise diagnosis, then set up a treatment plan with several of the world’s best oncologists serving as consultants. He likely has the forms to which you are referring.”

James goggled, “The WORLD’S best?”

Sherlock nodded, and John looked down with a blush, waiting for the chastisement to continue.

“Then they DEFINITELY should have known better!” James looked apoplectic. His face flushed scarlet, and a vein in his temple throbbed angrily. 

“James Elliot Weston, you calm down this minute!” Gloria’s voice, though high, carried so much authority Sherlock almost squirmed in his seat. “You know what the doctors said about your blood pressure.”

Beside Gloria stood the shame-faced doctor, Charles Mahoney. As the room watched in both shock and admiration, Gloria grabbed the doctor’s ear in an unforgiving pinch and dragged him further into the room. 

“Now, you do your job correctly, or I will call your mother and tell her all about her son’s callus treatment of her favorite blogger and his brilliant detective.”

“Mrs. Weston…”

“Don’t you Mrs. Weston me, young man. I grew up in the same town as your mother, and if you think for one second that I won’t call her down here to give you a well-deserved ear full of grief, you had best think again! Now, DO YOUR JOB!” Gloria released the doctor’s ear, stormed over to her seat, sat down, and fixed a ferocious glare on the doctor.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Dr. Mahoney tried to regain some dignity by squaring his shoulders and turning to face Sherlock and John. “I am terribly sorry I did not explain John’s diagnosis more thoroughly, but I did not want to risk waking him up yesterday.”

“None of your excuses, Charles. Give them the handout.” Gloria continued to micro-manage the distressed doctor from the relative comfort of her yellow plastic chair. James simply reclaimed her hand, kissing the back gently, and settled in to watch the show.

With a resigned sigh, he flipped a folder bearing John’s name open and retrieved two stapled packets of paper. “These outline John’s diagnosis and treatment plan, but I will discuss them in their entirety in private, if you like?”

“Of course they want you to go over the forms. Don’t be, how would you put it?” Gloria turned a gentle smile on Sherlock, “Ah, yes. Don’t be obtuse.”

Sherlock nodded at Gloria, but didn’t smile. John chuckled, much to the oncologist’s dismay. “That is exactly what I would say.”

Gloria beamed at her idol. 

“However,” Sherlock continued, “If it is alright with John, I would prefer to go over the details now.”

“Yeah. That sounds like a good idea. Then, we won’t have to repeat anything to Gloria and James when we ask for specific advice.” John smiled up at Sherlock, only to be met with a terse nod.

“Oh, but I know this can get quite personal…” Gloria spoke quietly, hesitantly now.

“I have a funny feeling we’ll be asking you some pretty personal questions when we go over dos and don’ts, so the more you know, the better. Besides, the military isn’t exactly known for offering soldiers privacy.” John grinned at James, who grinned back in acknowledgement.

“I knew you were former military.” James said. “You have the look.”

“What can I say? Like recognizes like.” John said.

“Well, we’re honored that you would trust us with something like this. If you’re sure?” Gloria asked, looking back and forth between Sherlock and John.

“We are sure.” Sherlock said, thumb running over John’s palm in an absent caress that had John smiling and blushing at the same time.

“Uh…” The doctor began, but shut up as Gloria began reciting a number John assumed belonged to the man’s mother. “Alright, then. Pages one through three are simply information on John’s health prior to the cancer. Pages four and five outline his diagnosis. We use codes to outline the condition, using TNM and numbers as identifiers. John has what we call stage 3a cancer.”

“Oh, thank God.” Gloria exhaled. Three pairs of eyes locked on the woman, with varying degrees of disbelief.

“Of the two types you could have,” James began when he noticed their looks, “stage 3a is the best case scenario.”

“It means John does not have mets on any other organs, besides his lungs.” Gloria explained with a small smile. “It’s not much comfort. I mean, he still has cancer, but it could be much worse. None of them,” she gestured at Mahoney, “can agree on a treatment plan for 3b, so you would have been signed up for experimental treatments in the hopes that one would work.”

“That’s where I am now.” James cut in. “It’s not exactly pleasant.”

“Don’t scare them, James.” Gloria squeezed his hand in mild admonishment, but she wouldn’t meet either John’s or Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Cancer is frightening, whether he states the truth or not.” Sherlock said, looking at James. He turned icy eyes on Dr. Mahoney. “Tell us the rest.”

“Of course. John is a T3N2M0. What that means is his tumor is located near his airway, causing the trouble with breathing. It is 3cm in diameter and looks to be spreading toward the chest wall and nearby lymph nodes. I have been in contact with a world renowned panel of oncologists, to include surgeons, radiation oncologists, and medical oncologists, like myself. Together we have outlined a plan we believe will work.”

John felt a bubble of hope swell in his chest and birds take flight in his stomach. They only BELIEVE it will work, John told the birds. It means they aren’t sure. It means I could still die. But I could live, too. I may live. John looked at Sherlock to try to gauge his reaction, and found his indifferent mask firmly in place. Ah, he thought. They were in a public forum now. Sherlock had not smiled once since the oncologist had entered. The man possessed no solid link to their slowly expanding inner circle, so Sherlock reverted to the cold, efficient detective. John understood, but he still missed the smile he had seen, quite frequently, for the past two days. 

While John pondered the shift in Sherlock’s demeanor, Sherlock tried to cling desperately to his frigid façade. When Charles Mahoney stumbled into the treatment room behind Gloria his shoulders drooped (embarrassment). Face drawn (many difficult cases), dark circles under his eyes (less than 2 hours of sleep in the past 36 hours), drop of coffee on his left sleeve and bottom right side of his coat (had coffee recently), light trembling in his limbs (excessive amounts of caffeine to remain awake) all combined, did not inspire confidence in his medical skills. The fact that Mycroft personally chose him to oversee John’s care offered some comfort, but not enough to believe such an insipid statement.  
However, once Mahoney began outlining the parameters of John’s condition his posture took on the same confidence Sherlock noted the night before. Shoulders back, eyes direct, and feet shoulder width apart. He looked confident—certain in the treatment plan he developed with countless other doctors. He felt divided. Half of Sherlock insisted Mycroft would not have appointed these physicians if they were not the best, but the other half… The other half maliciously pushed images of his mother coughing up blood, vomiting every hour, wasting away until there was nothing left through his mind. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his mind then produced images of John coughing up blood, losing weight at an alarming rate, and pictures of what John would look like a month into treatment. Two months. 

Keeping his voice steady with those thoughts rushing behind his eyes proved to be the most difficult thing he had done this morning. It ranked, in his mind, slightly above seeing John step out in front of him with C4 strapped to his chest, and slightly below seeing John’s face, hearing his voice, before he fell from the roof of St. Bart’s. By some miracle, John allowed Sherlock to explain, then forgave him for the terrible, but necessary deception. Now, Sherlock wondered if he would ever forgive John if he died. Regardless of his inner turmoil, Sherlock’s voice emerged sharp as flint, and equally cold.

“Are you going to elaborate on this treatment plan, or are we to do your job for you?” Berating ignorant fools became a reflexive action that helped Sherlock remain aloof. He used it well.

The silence stretched for 33 seconds before Gloria snorted, “Well, dear, you are a genius. I suppose the downside is everyone expects you to know everything about everything.”

“To be fair, he probably knew it at one point, but deleted the information when it was no longer relevant.” John surreptitiously ran his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, trying to convey with actions that he wasn’t angry with Sherlock.

Gloria and James chuckled, but Dr. Mahoney still looked sheepish.

“Usually, we give the families some time to come to terms with the diagnosis before we outline the treatment plan. I thought you might need a few minutes, but if you’re ready now?” Mahoney’s hesitation turned his statement into a question.

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, just continued to stare unnervingly at Dr. Mahoney.

“John will undergo combination therapy.” Mahoney looked at Gloria and James, “In stage 3 patients, combining chemotherapy with radiation treatment, then following that with surgery to remove the infected part of the lung has proven very effective. There is a chance John will not even relapse if the treatment is successful.”

“But.” James said leadingly.

“But, there are going to be more side effects from the combination of drugs and radiation running through your body.” Now, Mahoney addressed John directly, “For this reason, you have to be extremely honest with me and the rest of your team. If you cannot tolerate the doses, you must tell us.”

“I can tolerate a great deal.” John’s voice had frosted over, and his mouth settled into an impassive line.

“That is the wrong wording. Sorry. I’m not used to dealing with a soldier.” When John glanced at James Mahoney continued, “I am not Mr. Weston’s doctor.”

“The boy once peed in a paddling pool in our backyard. Besides, Dr. Freidman is just fine.” James said.

“Of course he is, dear.” Gloria patted James’ thigh in a placating manner, but Sherlock made a mental note to research Dr. Freidman anyway. 

“I meant the toll on your body will be immense. If you feel nauseous or too tired to even get out of bed for a short walk or a cuppa, you must tell us so we can combat the symptoms.”

“With more drugs.” John looked at James, who nodded.

“I have one of those containers with the days of the week on the lids so I don’t forget a pill. There’s about eight pills in each one. Some for pain, and some for nausea.”

“Yes, and your chemotherapy will primarily be in intravenous form. We would like to keep you in the hospital for one week to monitor the side effects. We will make dosage adjustments throughout the first two weeks until you are as comfortable as we can reasonably make you.

“Your treatments will last five hours, so I recommend you bring a snack and something to keep you occupied.”

“They brought in the telly for James, whenever we ran out of reading material.” Gloria interjected, “And I usually run down to the cafeteria to get him something to eat about two hour in.” She was taking notes as Mahoney spoke to John and Sherlock, and from what John could see from his position kitty corner to the woman, she was adding helpful tips along the way. 

“We will start you on platinol and vinorelbine, and see how those fair. Your chemotherapy will occur four times a week for three weeks, then a week long rest period. Your radiation oncologist, Dr. Margaret Singer, will take you to the radiation treatment room after your chemotherapy is complete here, and she will mark your chest where the tumor is located. She will then discern which way to aim the radiation. Dr. Singer has already determined the dosage she believes will be most effective, but she will make adjustments throughout your treatment, as well.” Mahoney paused to make sure they were following everything, but when no one spoke up he continued.

“Dr. Singer will be using 3D conformal radiation therapy to target the tumor from multiple angles and, hopefully, shrink it. You will need to come in five days a week for your radiation treatment, but the appointments will be short. They’ll last about 15 to 20 minutes each, and because it is external radiation therapy, you don’t have to worry about it affecting the people around you. After the first three weeks, we will run the same tests you went through the other day and measure the effectiveness of treatment. Based on what we find, we will make adjustments as necessary.”

“How long will the chemo and radiation continue?” Sherlock asked.

“Once the tumor is small enough, we can remove it with a lobectomy. Then, we can focus treatment on any other affected areas, if the cancer hasn’t been killed off by then.”

“Approximately how many sessions will that take?” John wondered.

“Usually, we see results within the first four cycles.”

“Each cycle being three weeks long?” John asked. 

“Yes.” 

“What side-effects am I looking at?” John asked, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, letting go of Sherlock’s hand in the process.

“Nausea and fatigue are the major side-effects, but you can expect a skin irritation from the radiation and full body aches from the chemo. Mouth sores, taste changes, loss of appetite, and hair loss are all common side effects, as well.”

“Right.” John nodded, jaw set in a stubborn line. Sherlock had no doubt his lover intended to bury all discomfort until it became so unbearable, even Anderson would notice the signs. He also knew he would never allow John to get away with burying his pain. 

“The more honest you are with your team, the more accurate we can make the pain medication, anti-nausea medication, and any other preventative meds you may need,” Dr. Mahoney insisted, eyeing John like he might a pathological liar.

“You will know severity and frequency as the side-effects become apparent.” Sherlock exchanged a pointed look with John, holding the stare until John looked away with a tiny nod of confirmation. 

“Do you have any questions at this time?” Mahoney asked.

After exchanging another look John spoke up, “I think we are good, for now. Thanks.”

“If you have any other questions, call the nurse listed on this card.” Mahoney handed John a small business card with several numbers scrawled across the front. “Her number is the first one on there. For emergencies, call the second and third numbers and a response team will get to you within 10 minutes.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded at the doctor, as he moved to leave the room.

“I’ll tell your mother you said hello, shall I?” Gloria asked.

“Yes, thank you.” The doctor swept from the room, and Sherlock reclaimed John’s hand. 

“John…” Sherlock began, intending on giving John a long lecture on the importance of hyperbole as opposed to litotes as far as side-effects from intensive chemotherapy and radiation treatments were concerned.

“Am I interrupting?” Everyone turned to see DI Lestrade framed in the doorway. “Christ, this room is hideous.” 

John broke out in fits of laughter moments before James and Gloria joined in, and Sherlock even allowed a small smile to tilt his lips. 

“It doesn’t get better with time, either.” James chortled merrily. 

“It might with a wrecking ball.” Lestrade countered, disgust causing his nose to wrinkle slightly. “Sorry. I’m Gregory Lestrade. Greg, if you like.” Lestrade moved to shake first James’ hand then Gloria’s.

“Oh! The Detective Inspector who works with Sherlock?” Gloria asked, stars already filling her eyes again.

“One in the same,” Lestrade nodded before turning to address John and Sherlock. “I stopped by your room, but the nurses pointed me in this direction.”

“Yeah. Seems I’ll be here a while, so I appreciate all the company.” John gestured to James and Gloria, “This is James and Gloria Weston.” Even as the words left his mouth, a nurse bustled in and began unhooking James from the IV.

“Looks like I’m done.” James went to stand up, but Gloria placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“There are some forms they asked me to sign, remember? I thought I would show Sherlock the cafeteria while I’m at it, so he can pick up some food for John and himself. And the Inspector, of course.” Gloria added as an afterthought. 

“Alright. I suppose you want me to wait here then, yeah?” James eyed his wife suspiciously. 

“That would be lovely, thank you, dear.” Gloria kissed his cheek, then gestured for Sherlock to follow her. 

Placing a kiss on John’s forehead, Sherlock rose from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

“Go on, Sherlock. I’ll be fine. I need to catch Greg up on the details anyway. I know how you hate to repeat yourself.” John smiled and watched Sherlock leave the room.

“So, what did I miss?” Lestrade asked, looking from James to John and bracing himself to hear all the horrible details for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore each and every one of you. Over 120 kudos! I may, or may not, have danced in sheer joy. We will definitely be seeing more from James and Gloria, and the next chapter involves more Mystrade (finally!). Enjoy!


	16. All I Really Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recounts the past three weeks of treatment, and laments some of the new developments.

Tired. Of all the words that might be used to describe John’s current state of being, tired was the most innocuous. He felt like he just completed survival training for the army, fallen off the top of Big Ben, then been run over by every cab in the city of London. Mainly, he felt half-alive, nauseous, and bitterly exhausted. John did his best not to show how bone-weary he felt these days, both for the sake of his friends and for the sake of his lover. 

Which brought his thoughts circling around to Sherlock Holmes. The detective had been nothing but supportive, helpful, and caring, going so far as to eat every meal with John, help him out of chairs, beds, the shower, and generally be there for John whenever he might need him. It was driving John crazy. After the first week of treatment, John had been too tired to even offer a mutual wank, which just made him feel even worse. Sherlock just plowed right along, though. Insisting he didn’t mind taking a break from their ‘sexual relations’ so long as John’s health improved. And damned if that didn’t hurt. 

John felt the loss acutely. Being a healthy male in his early forties meant John indulged in self-gratification often, unless he had a partner at the time. In which case, they would get off together. Now, John had a brilliant, gorgeous detective who not only let John touch him, but appeared to crave sex as much as John (if not as much as he craved unsolved murders), and the cancer treatment had stolen his energy. He still felt desire for Sherlock—for that level of intimacy with his new lover—but his body simply lacked enough energy to participate. Yet, for all that he seemed to enjoy their first encounter Sherlock seemed unruffled by the distinct lack of sex! 

A sigh escaped as John shifted wearily in his favorite arm chair. Across the room, the soft pull of a bow on strings paused and Sherlock’s prismatic eyes narrowed on John. Swallowing another sigh, John smiled at his flat mate and resumed sipping his tea, waiting for the strains of Vivaldi to pick up again. 

“If you are uncomfortable, perhaps you should retire for the evening.” Sherlock suggested, eyes still focused resolutely on John’s face. The level of concern in that gaze had increased steadily since the start of his treatment. Luckily, Sherlock had not broken down into tears again since that awful night three weeks ago. Doctor Mahoney had given John a prescription for anti-depressants, and strict instructions to keep up with his therapy, but it was easier to stay positive when he wasn’t the only one trying.

“I’m fine.” When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, John nearly sighed again. “Really, Sherlock. I just want to read for a bit before bed.”

“Alright. Would you like me to keep playing?” That, of course, was the other thing. Sherlock went out of his way to cater to any whim, need, random emotional torrent that John experienced. If he felt the need to sneeze, Sherlock was right there with a tissue. If John felt tired, Sherlock was already leading him to bed. If he was feeling lonely, or isolated, Sherlock would curl around him like a giant house cat. The only one that didn’t piss him off these days was the last. 

“No new cases this week either?” John asked instead of answering Sherlock’s question.

“None that are interesting.” Sherlock half-turned his body to face out their living room window, and half remained facing John, as if he couldn’t bring himself to turn away completely. 

“What about the one in the paper this morning? The one with the killer who leaves behind a piece of gold and a heart, but no body? I’d have thought that would be right up your alley.” John said, picking up the latest novel in his once favorite crime series. These days, he couldn’t help comparing Jacob Steele to Sherlock, and finding the hero of the series woefully lacking in skill. 

“Spanish doubloon,” Sherlock murmured. The violin sat on his shoulder as Sherlock plucked absently at the strings. “Lestrade will figure it out.”

“You could go help.”

“No.” Sherlock turned back to face John, lowering the violin to his side and clutching the bow tightly. “I’m sure Lestrade can handle it. Besides,” Sherlock continue before John could speak, “Your appointment is for eight in the morning and you need to rest. If he really needs help, I’m sure he will call.”

John nodded, “Okay.” And the final problem. The only reason Sherlock had so much time to faun over John, was that he refused to take any new cases. For whatever reason—fear, paranoia, and stubbornness being the most likely culprits—Sherlock refused to leave John’s side. 

He slept—or stared at the ceiling while John slept—in the same bed as John every night, went to all his Chemo sessions with him, Christ, Sherlock even stood in the technician booth and watched as John underwent radiation therapy. Despite all his efforts to get Sherlock involved in the latest murders, a few of which made even Mycroft curious, John still held all of Sherlock’s laser focus. It was extremely uncomfortable. 

The only times they didn’t spend together were when John took naps during the day or when he needed to use the loo! Though he had to fight Sherlock to earn even that little space. 

‘What if you fall down?’ He had asked the first time John tried to close the door on Sherlock. ‘What if you hit your head, or you have trouble breathing, or you catch on fire from the light reflecting through the mirror and onto your clothes?’ Okay, the last one was an exaggeration, but the rest were all questions Sherlock had flung at him during the course of the first week. 

‘What if the pod people really DO take over?’ John had asked in return, frustrated by Sherlock’s inability to grasp the idea that John might need ‘alone time.’

The response had been a confused, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, John. What do terrible pop culture attempts at understanding potential extraterrestrials have to do with you being alone in the bathroom?’

The nausea did not help. The first two weeks had sapped most of John’s reserve of inner strength until his focus had to be on just breathing through the pain. The look on Sherlock’s face had nearly broken John’s heart, and he promised himself he would do everything he could to keep that look off the detective’s face permanently.

 

Chemicals crawled through John’s veins leaving icy trails in their wake as his heart worked to pump the toxic concoction throughout his whole body. The first four treatments proved uncomfortable, but nothing the former Army surgeon couldn’t handle. Then, this treatment started. Two hours into the process and a bright flash of pain seized his heart, so unexpected John had gasped and dropped his hand of cards. Sherlock moved so fast, John barely had time to register the clatter of the deck of cards hitting the floor and the harsh scrape of chair legs before long fingers framed his face. 

“Joh—alright?” The words crackled in the back of his mind as John tried to catch his breath. Every time he drew in air, however small the pull, another sharp pain lanced through his chest. Luckily, the pain was ebbing and his sense of embarrassment quickly took over. 

“I’m fine.” John breathed, gingerly pushing back into an upright seated position. Sherlock sent him an arch look, but the pain had faded into almost an afterthought and John just wanted to go back to playing cards and waiting for his treatment to end.

“John,” Sherlock began. John quickly cut him off.

“I’ve had this problem before, Sherlock. It’s really nothing.” Now, those eyes narrowed in on John’s face.

“What problem would that be?” Despite the glare Sherlock leveled on John, his voice held only concern and the edges of ebbing panic. “Do you mean before the war, after you were shot, or after your diagnosis?”

“Sherlock,” Seeing hurt flash a hazy green in Sherlock’s eyes made John amend what he had almost said to a resigned, “After I was shot, alright?” That earned him Sherlock’s ‘you’re being an idiot on purpose’ look. “It’s called pleurisy. The pain only lasts a few moments, then it fades to nothing. They usually happen once every few months.”

“And this didn’t feel any different? You’re sure? What brings on pleurisy?” John could tell Sherlock had begun to sift through his medical knowledge for the term, but he answered anyway.

“Since I was shot, thanks. And any number of things can cause the pain—infection, a chest injury, cancer…” John pointedly left out pending heart attack, and prayed Sherlock wouldn’t know that potential cause.

“And your primary physician told you it’s harmless?” Sherlock asked, eyes boring into John’s as if daring him to lie.

“Yes.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand between his own, hoping to show how confident he felt about his former doctor’s diagnosis. When those observant eyes remained wary, John continued. “I’ll tell you what. If this happens again, we’ll ask Mahoney about it, yeah?”

“Promise?” Sherlock asked, that childlike insecurity showing through.

“Yeah. I promise.” John smiled, tugging Sherlock closer so he could place a small kiss on his still frowning lips. The man could be such a child but, God, John loved him. “Sorry, I ruined our game.”

“Irrelevant. You weren’t winning anyway.” Then he said things like that, and John remembered why it had taken five years, a faked death, and a cancer diagnosis to work up to a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. A small smirk took most of the punch out of his statement, but John still felt justified in kicking him lightly in the shin.

Sherlock opened his mouth, most likely to object to the ‘unfair’ treatment of his shin, but his phone went off. With a quick look at John, Sherlock stepped out of the room to take the call. John sighed in relief and rubbed a hand just under his scar. He hadn’t lied. The pain came and went quite often in the first few months after that fateful bullet tore through bone and muscle...but then it became more and more infrequent until John couldn’t remember the last time he felt the sharp lance. Being a doctor, John knew self-diagnosis was dangerous and foolish, so he tried to stifle the latest pessimistic string of thoughts.

The promise held. If John felt anything like that again, he would call Mahoney and ask about it. John survived a bullet wound, having Semtex strapped to his chest, watching his best friend fake his own death, and a cancer diagnosis, so the idea that he may have just experienced a warning symptom for a heart attack—ludicrous. Still. John sat back in the wonderfully comfortable chair, staring in mild disgust at the cards strewn across the floor.

Sherlock wandered back in and crouched to collect the deck off the floor, a familiar look in his eyes. A case. When John first moved in, he noticed the look appeared almost manic and full of so much glee and excitement it bordered on indecent. After John’s diagnosis, the look became...contained. Almost resigned. John hated that look. Sherlock didn’t appear to be hiding his interest in the cases, merely tempering his excitement enough to attempt to fool John into thinking missing such cases did not cause Sherlock distress. Maybe, it didn’t. He knew Sherlock as well as he knew himself, had gotten to know him quite a bit better since the diagnosis and their confessions, but he still managed to hide things from John. Things like arousal, bitterness, boredom, and exhaustion. The only thing he failed to hide—his concern and soul deep terror for John. 

“Greg needs your help, I take it?” John asked, watching Sherlock’s face for any sign of emotions.

“He asked, but it turns out I was able to help over the phone.” As nonchalant as he could, Sherlock gathered the cards, resettled his chair, and dealt them both a new hand. 

“That simple, huh?” John picked up his hand and prepared to play more than just poker.

“Of course not, John. The killer leaves a heart and a Spanish doubloon, though. He was bound to be easy to catch.”

“Why do you say that?” John asked with surprise. He’d missed this. The easy and excited manner Sherlock spoke in as he described murder scenes and inept criminals. Eyes once dulled with fear, now gleamed in excitement and discovery.

“Oh, come on John! How many people do you know who readily own a collection of Spanish gold pieces, or even have constant access to them?” Fair question.

“Two.” Sherlock arched a brow in mild disbelief and slight admiration. “Ones a diplomat and the other is Mycroft.” That earned John a laugh.

“Alright, now of those two, which would be able to use the pieces without anyone noticing? Come to that, would either of them be able to slip away from their security details for long enough to murder someone, surgically remove the heart, and dispose of the body?” 

“Surgically? How do you know the heart was surgically removed?” Sherlock looked at John from beneath thick, dark lashes.

“A hunch, but I was hoping you would be able to tell me definitively.” 

“Me?” Surprise and delight filled him as he looked at Sherlock in askance, “You want my help?”

“Well, you are a doctor.” Sherlock smiled taking John’s hand to place a gentle kiss in the center of his palm. “My doctor.” His eyes heated to smoke and John’s breathing picked up as his pulse raced. “As an Army surgeon, you would be able to tell if the cuts are professional or amateur, I’m sure.”

“A reasonable deduction.” John murmured, foolishly pleased that Sherlock would ask him to consult. He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed being involved in these cases until Greg began keeping silent about details around him. Presumably, so John would not feel obligated to give an opinion and potentially wear himself out. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course, John. You know I’m hopeless without my blogger.” Sherlock offered a small but genuine smile that had John’s own lips rising in a grin. This is exactly what I need, he thought, though he wondered how he would assist in this case seeing as the crime scene had already been cleared.

“Do you have pictures for me to look at?” John asked, almost dreading the answer. 

“Pictures?” Sherlock scoffed as if offended at the very notion of using photographs to deduce facts. “Don’t be silly, love. We’re in the hospital.”   
Confusion shifted through John’s brain as he tried to determine what the crazy detective was trying so very hard to imply without actually telling John. “I am aware that we are in the hospital, Sherlock. We’re here every Wednesday.”

“Sound observation, but take it a step further if you will. What else is in this hospital?”

“The morgue,” John said on a flash of inspiration and clarity. “You’re taking me to the morgue to view the body?” Already, excitement curled tendrils through John’s belly. He hadn’t been this excited since the first time Sherlock asked him to tag along on one of his cases. 

“If you are feeling up to it.” Those gem bright eyes watched John closely for any objections, but none were forthcoming. 

“Of course I feel up to it! Let’s go.” John made to stand before he felt the gentle, sharp tug on his arm. What—the IV. How could he forget the IV hooked into his arm, spreading a poisonous concoction through his veins in an attempt to destroy the cancer cells attacking his lungs? “Oh.” 

Sinking back into the chair, John felt bitterness and sorrow crowd in to edge out the excitement of a few moments ago. He couldn’t go haring off like he used to—not anymore. Now, he had to wait. He had to sit and sleep more often than a housecat and being twice as useless. At least a cat could offer comfort to the owner. All John seemed to do these days was offer pain and fear. His disease seemed to be spreading to infect Sherlock as surely as it infected John, making him slow down against his will. Why else would Sherlock refuse to take any cases that involved him leaving John’s side? Clearly, he believed John to be as incompetent and useless as John believed himself to be. John stared down at his hands with a frown on his lips and anger choking in his throat. 

“John? Look at me.” A warm hand, long and tapered, settled over John’s broader ones. Though he kept his fingers tightly clenched, John glanced surreptitiously up at his detective. “You are not useless.”

“How did you…?” 

“The look on your face was not difficult to figure out, John. You are very expressive, especially when the emotions are strong or unexpected.” Leaning in to hold John’s stare, Sherlock continued, “I would not have asked if I thought you would be physically unable to help. The doctor said you are progressing right on schedule and the side effects all seem to be mild—unless you have been hiding the severity?”

The statement tapered into a sharp question at the end, but John merely shook his head. He hadn’t hid a damn thing. How could he with the world’s most observant man staring at him twenty-four hours a day? And, he thought, that isn’t fair. Sherlock was worried about him, and for good reason, too. His mother died of the same form of cancer from which John now suffered. 

“Then,” Sherlock continued, “I see no reason you cannot accompany me to the morgue when your chemotherapy session ends in precisely,” a quick glance at the neon purple clock above the door, “three minutes.”

“I would love to,” John told him sincerely. He didn’t just want to help Sherlock with his latest case. He needed to help him. With something. With anything. It had been far too long since John felt like he had contributed to something. 

“Good.” Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, slow and sweet. The sharp pain in his chest now completely forgotten as warmth and love replaced it. John sighed into Sherlock’s mouth, the arm not currently attached to the banana bag lifting so John could bury his fingers in soft, dark curls. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered when he pulled back to smile down at John, dreamy confusion filling John’s mind as he focused on that smile. “Why did you stop?” 

“The nurse is here.” 

Eyes widening in pleasant surprise, John watched the nurse bustle in and set about un-hooking him from the drip. She put a bandage over the puncture mark and handed John the sign out chart, all the while chattering amiably about a little league game her niece would be playing in that night. John signed the forms, only half paying attention to what was written on them—he’d signed them a dozen times before and the writing never changed. The nurse wished them a pleasant evening, promising to tell them all about the game though neither he nor Sherlock asked for the information, and left with a small wave. 

“You were trying to distract me,” John accused once the nurse left. Sherlock simply shrugged noncommittally, a smug smile lighting his eyes. He really did love the man. Pulling Sherlock down by one of his coat lapels, John sealed their mouths together in another kiss. “Thank you.”

A fond smile lit Sherlock’s face as he tugged John from the room and to the elevator. “You are sure you feel well enough for this?”

“Yes.” The word held more force than John intended and he winced at the almost snap, “Yes, I’m sure. I need to do something, Sherlock. I feel like I’m going crazy just sitting around the flat or the treatment rooms. I just…”

Sherlock gripped his hand, stopping his tirade mid sentence. “I know.” 

Looking up into his face, John could see that he meant it. Not that John was really surprised by his statement. If anyone understood the pressing need to do something to stave off monotony and boredom, it was Sherlock Holmes. Understanding struck John suddenly as the elevator doors opened to admit them to the morgue. “Oh. This is what it’s like for you all the time?”

“More or less,” Sherlock shrugged, leading John from the elevator to the steel table holding the body. Judging from the shift of his eyes and the easy dismissal, John would guess much more. Molly stood to the left of the still form, smiling softly at the both of them as they approached.  
“I haven’t seen either of you in over a month. Where have you been?”

“Out of town,” Sherlock lied easily. John’s face betrayed nothing as he stepped up to the body next to Sherlock. 

“Oh.” Molly looked down at her feet then up at John. “Well, welcome back.” John smiled at her politely, though her eyes kept flitting to Sherlock and she likely missed his efforts. In a move she’d done hundreds of times before, Molly folded the sheet back and let John get a good look at what remained of the body—namely, the heart. 

Leaning in for a better look, John saw no striations along any of the arteries leading from the organ. “Pale,” John murmured, no longer paying attention to the room or anyone in it. Now that he had something to focus on that didn’t involve his devolving health, John would use it to his full advantage. “The person was drained of blood then the heart was removed. Why?” 

Circling the table to get a better look at the other side, John leaned close. “The cuts are quick. Sure. Made with a straight razor or a scalpel. Look, there’s no tearing at all.” John followed the lines of the muscle with his eyes, sure the marks were made by a professional surgeon or someone with a strong medical background. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock his conclusion when a wave of nausea hit him so hard he nearly went to his knees. Moving quickly, John dashed for the nearest trash can, heaving into it as he lost his breakfast, lunch, and all his pride. 

Oh God, it hurt. Clutching the rim of the garbage pail, John silently prayed for it to pass. Hands smoothed over his back as the terrified voice of his lover finally broke through the roaring in his ears. Another wave hit him just as John began to straighten, his body bent nearly double as he heaved uselessly into the bin. Moments later, there was a sharp, quick jab in his right arm and the severe nausea eased away. A towel was pressed into his hand and John used it to wipe his mouth, those same hands lowering him to sit in a chair. 

All of his limbs shook, and John was more than certain all the blood had drained from his face. Trying to calm his breathing, John finally looked up…and felt all the hard won air in his lungs still. Sherlock looked horrified and guilty, eyes so huge they nearly swallowed his entire face. Paler than even John, Sherlock shook right along with him and kept mouthing a word, or a string of words, it was difficult to tell over the pounding in his temples.

“What?” he whispered, one shaky hand raising to cup Sherlock’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock gasped as his own hand rose to clutch at John’s. “I never should have brought you here. This was a mistake. I miscalculated. Again.” The last word dripped with venom. 

“No,” John swallowed the bile in his throat. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Just some nausea. I must have forgotten to take the medication before coming to today’s session.”

“You didn’t. I gave it to you with a full glass of water.” Sherlock told him, eyes watching him warily, as if John might collapse at any given moment.   
“Then, I’ll tell Mahoney and he’ll prescribe me something else. Simple.” The look on Sherlock’s face just about broke his heart. He looked as if his world was crumbling in front of him, or someone had smashed his skull, burned his violin, and destroyed all of his experiments on the same day. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He looked as though someone just told him he would never be loved. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Really.”

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Sherlock murmured quietly. 

“Why?” John asked, wary of the answer.

“I hate seeing you in pain, but I hate it when you lie to me, just as much.” Sherlock admitted, staring at John in that unnerving way that always made John feel special and terribly inadequate all at the same time.

“I didn’t realize...” John began, lifting a hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ll try to stop. It’s just an automatic response at this point.”

Sherlock leaned into his touch, eyes still fixed on John, “I know. Thank you.”

John thought about pulling Sherlock into a kiss, but the taste of vomit had him cringing away from the thought. The kiss would have to wait until John had a chance to rinse his mouth out. One moment, John is scrunching his nose in distaste and the next he is blinking in shock as Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s forehead. A gasp had both of them turning to see Molly with a hand over her mouth.

“You two are...are you two?” She couldn’t seem to finish a sentence, so John took pity on the poor girl and linked his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“Yeah. We’re together.” Sherlock looked at him with warmth in his pale eyes, and John felt that warmth fill his chest.

“Oh.” Molly looked sad and resigned but she made an effort to smile. “Here. I brought some water.” She handed the cup to John, and he took a sip, swishing the water around before spitting it into the sink.

“Thank you.” John smiled at Molly and Sherlock nodded in her direction in acknowledgement. 

Before Molly could say anything else Dr. Mahoney strode in with a wheelchair and nurse in tow. “So, what happened in here?” 

Sherlock’s glare could slice the doctor in two, and it made the attempt at a smile fall from Mahoney’s face as he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right. Bad joke.” 

“I’m just more nauseous than usual.” John told him over Sherlock ‘s shoulder, placing a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and rubbing soothing circles in an effort to calm him down. “I think it’s the increased dosage.”  
“Well, we’ll just change your medication and see if we can’t curb the nausea. Are you having any other difficulties?” While Mahoney talked, the nurse took John’s pulse, blood pressure, and temperature. 

“Doctor, he has a fever of 38.3 degrees, but his other stats are in normal ranges.” Standing the nurse stepped back as Sherlock whipped to face John. Taking in his flushed face with new eyes, eyes filled with guilt.

“We’ll send you home with stronger medication and antibiotics.” Mahoney continued writing as he spoke, then ripped the page off and handed it to John. Before John could take the paper, however, Sherlock snatched it from Mahoney. 

“And this will make him better?” Sherlock asked, reading over the new list.

“It should help with the side effects and ensure he doesn’t have an infection. We’ll keep an eye on you and make adjustments until you are comfortable again.” Mahoney spoke directly to John instead of about him, and John felt his respect for the physician grow. 

“Thanks.” John spoke up before Sherlock could, squeezing his hand in warning. Mahoney smiled and left, Molly fluttered and helped Sherlock move John into a chair while they finished up, then Sherlock took John home and stared at him for hours, cataloguing all of his movements and needs as if John were a case.

That had been a week ago, and the case was still unsolved so long as Sherlock refused to offer consultation on it. “That case in the paper,” John started as Sherlock turned to look at him. “Is that the same case you asked for my help on last week?”

A dark cloud moved over Sherlock’s face before he resumed his playing, “I don’t see how that matters.”

That was a definite yes. “You should help them, Sherlock. More people will die until you do.” Appealing to Sherlock’s heart always had mixed results. Where John was concerned, there were no limits to what Sherlock would do, but for other people... Just as he was about to respond a knock sounded on the door. 

“Are we expecting company?” John asked, looking at Sherlock with confusion in his eyes. 

“No.” Sherlock said, setting down his violin and moving to open the door. Voices carried into the living room, but John was too exhausted to stand. 

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you, mate. How are you holding up? Sherlock driving you insane yet?” Greg’s voice carried into the room before the man himself rounded the corner, striding over to stand in front of John. “We thought you could do with some company other than a genius or his skull.”

John grinned up at Greg and motioned for him to take a seat. “He’s been great, Greg. Really.” Something Greg said making confusion furrow on John’s brow. “What do you mean ‘we’?” 

Greg grinned and turned to face the door, John copying the movement just in time to see Mycroft step around the corner looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. “How are you, Doctor Watson?”

John felt his eyebrows rise into his hairline as he took in the grin still plastered to Greg’s face and the blush working over Mycroft’s cheeks. Well, that was a surprise. Sherlock looked suspicious but not upset by the new development, and there was no way Sherlock had missed it if even John could see the emotions. “Please, call me John.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded.

“So, what brings you two here tonight, other than your perception that John is not in completely competent care and may be driven insane by my company?” Sherlock eyed their guests with rising suspicion.

“We,” Greg spoke up, looking at John as he continued. “Have a proposition for the two of you that I think will work in everyone’s favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus. I moved across the country, but I am now settled and all of my classwork is finished. From here on out, it's smooth sailing (for us), and uncertain waters for our favorite couple. The next tow chapters feature Mystrade developments as well as more wonderful Johnlock. Thanks for sticking with me this far and I hope you enjoy!


	17. Awkward Heart to Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft help John and Sherlock get some of their frustrations out into the open, then discuss the plans for that night.

A proposition. Well, that sounded dangerous. John looked between Mycroft and Greg with trepidation and curiosity, and when he looked over at Sherlock he noticed the detective wore nearly the same expression with just a lot more wariness. Then again, Greg never gave suggestions that would harm his friends. Mycroft might, but not Greg. Speaking of Mycroft, John turned his gaze to the government official and noted the illustrious calm shell he usually wore had slipped enough to see a sliver of excitement and warmth. John found himself smiling in spite of the situation. If Greg had managed to break through the ice enough for the mask to falter in front of an audience…John’s mind boggled at the possibilities. 

“Yeah, I know. Proposition sounds a bit dodgy, but it’s a good idea.” Greg leaned so his elbows rested on his knees, that excited gleam back in his eyes. “See, I need Sherlock’s help on this case and I know he probably needs the brain work.”

“I—“Sherlock attempted to interrupt, denial written in every rigid muscle and tense line.

“Now, hear me out before you start breaking down all the reasons it won’t work.” Greg told Sherlock, speaking right over the flustered man. John just grinned. It was nice to have back up after so long of simply letting Sherlock have his way, though John felt sure a tantrum lurked just beneath the surface of those pale eyes John loved so much. “I need your help. We’re at a standstill and if we don’t get a break in this case soon, another person is going to die.”

“I assured Greg that you would do your best to assist him,” Mycroft told them, a brief glimmer of a smile hovering in the corner of his mouth. “After all, this case is very intriguing and involves over seven different murders now. It must be at least an eight on your scale, Sherlock.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock sniffed, looking anywhere but at the file in Greg’s hands.

“People are dying, Sherlock,” Mycroft tried again. 

“I know.” Pained grey eyes locked on John’s face, and though he was responding to Mycroft’s statement, he kept his eyes locked on John while he answered.

“What if I told you I had a way for John to have some company while you worked?” Greg asked, breaking the tense silence with the ease of a man well used to awkward, often painful situations.

That caught Sherlock’s attention however, as his eyes narrowed on Greg’s face. “Assuming I actually want to help…what precisely are you suggesting?”

“A trade, of sorts?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further, Mycroft looked amused, Greg looked pleased, and John just wanted to chuck his cup of tea at the lot of them.

“I don’t need a nanny, for Christ’s sake!” His anger sliced through the room with all the power of a precision bomb, and just as much destruction. “If Sherlock wants to work a case, he can bloody well work a case. No one needs to sit with me, help me blow my nose, or tie my God damn shoes. I’ve been doing that myself for well over thirty years, and I certainly don’t need help now.”

“John,” Sherlock tried, voice low and hands held out in a placating gesture.

“Don’t ‘John’ me,” John cut him off with a hiss. “I’m sick, not dead.” 

Sherlock looked devastated and John felt like the biggest arse in the whole of England. Sherlock was worried and just trying to help, and John slapped at him for his efforts. They were both scared, but John took it out on the man who stayed by his side through the past month of chemo and radiation. Who made him tea and soup whenever asked, and sometimes when John didn’t have the energy to ask. Who loved John so much he couldn’t imagine living without him. And John was just being petty and spiteful because Sherlock didn’t want John left alone? 

Pushing to his feet, John stiffly walked from the room, climbing the stairs to his old room for the first time since his diagnosis. Already, he felt torn between punching a wall and crying, and knew he couldn’t do either in front of his small group of friends. Pushing into his old room, John quietly closed the door and moved to his bed. He gave into anger long enough to punch his old pillow twice, then simply sank into the mattress, curled in on himself, and tried to breathe away his frustration. It had crept up on him so swiftly, John hadn’t noticed the ire until he shouted and insulted his friends for caring too much. 

A quiet swish of sound let John know someone followed him up the stairs and now stood in the room. Another swish announced the closing of the door, and whoever entered behind him sighed. The bed dipped under new weight and a warm hand settled on John’s back.

“You alright, mate?” Greg’s voice emerged quiet and gentle, and it made John feel like an even bigger berk.

“Yeah,” John sighed.

“You want to talk about it?” Greg tried again, hand still firmly planted between John’s shoulder blades. The warmth was nice and so was the thought behind Greg’s efforts and Mycroft’s line of reasoning. They probably knew that Sherlock’s over-attentive tendencies had John reaching for his cane—not to use as a walking aide, but to knock Sherlock out for a few peaceful hours. The thought had John cringing as he realized how self-indulgent that sounded. 

“Yeah,” John finally gave in and sat up to face his friend. The concern on Greg’s face was as obvious as the grey in his hair, and had John rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “I’m grateful…” A snort stopped him from completing the thought, Greg watching him with amused disbelief. “Okay, maybe grateful isn’t the right word.”

“We weren’t trying to insult you, John,” Greg murmured.

“I know.” Running a hand over his hair, John felt his nose scrunch in disgust as he felt his hair come free of his scalp. Instead of feeling pain as the follicles came free, it felt the same as when he lost hair to his brush in the mornings—just a quiet surrender. 

“Even you have to admit, you need some help getting around these days. Not,” Greg started when John glared at him, “because you aren’t capable, but because of what could happen if no one was here with you. Think about it, John.” Greg gestured to the room. “If you fell down, or had a seizure, or a heart attack and no one was here…” he let the statement trail off meaningfully.

“I hate it,” John said, hating the tears that welled up even more. “I hate that I can’t go out like I used to, or do the shopping. Hell, I can’t even pick up milk at the market without feeling so tired I have to sit down at the foot of the stairs.”

Greg listened silently, letting John vent all his frustrations while Sherlock talked to his brother. John would do his best not to say anything to add to Sherlock’s fragile state, just as Sherlock would trip over himself trying to do everything for John in order to spare him becoming too exhausted to move. With all the tiptoeing around feelings and situations the two did over the past month, Greg only felt surprised this outburst hadn’t happened sooner. How could two people so in tune with the other be so clueless at the same time?

“I hate that Sherlock does everything for me whether I need him to or not, citing the fact that I’m sick as an excuse,” John continued.

“You are sick,” Lestrade said quietly. He fixed deep brown eyes on discouraged blue and tried to swallow his own bitterness at the situation. “Just because you need help every now and then doesn’t make you less of a soldier. Less of yourself. It just means you have more to fight for.”

“What?” John asked.

“Look at it this way. You need Sherlock’s help for now, but when you’re better you can turn the tables. You took care of him for the first three years you stayed here anyway. Can’t you just view this as sort of…payback?”

John stared at Greg for a moment then snickered. “Please, let me be in the room when you tell Sherlock what we talked about.”

Rolling his eyes, Greg grinned at the blonde. “Only if you agree to our solution.”

“So, what? When Sherlock is working a case with you, Mycroft will be here?”

“Exactly! And when Sherlock is at the lab, I’ll be here. Then, there are the days I’ll just show up to talk. We’ve missed our weekly pissing sessions for long enough. Your schedule is pretty stable right now, so we can change that.” Greg felt eager and mildly ashamed he hadn’t made more of an effort to be around his friend in his time of need.

“I can’t drink beer anymore.” John looked briefly upset again as he said, “Messes with my medications.”

“So, we’ll have tea or coffee or fizzy drinks.” Greg shrugged, trying to tell John that the beverage hardly mattered with just a gesture. “It’s the idea that counts anyway.”

“Alright,” John smiled.

“That isn’t all is it?” Greg asked, looking at John knowingly. “That was a lot of anger you let fly back there. Though, I will admit Sherlock gets to everyone eventually, his constant attention and need to please is definitely not enough to cause that outburst. So, what else?”

John felt his eyes widen and a blush rise to his cheeks. No way. Absolutely no way was he going to tell Greg that he hadn’t been able to get an erection since the first time Sherlock and he shared a mutual wank in the shower. Some information needed to be kept between the two of them. But…it wasn’t between the two of them was it? The more John thought about it, the more he noticed a complete lack of communication between Sherlock and himself. John asked Sherlock to be honest, to talk to him whenever something bothered him, yet John had not extended the same courtesy. Not once did John pull Sherlock aside and ask if he missed the physical intimacy. John just assumed Sherlock didn’t care one way or the other. 

“Spit it out.” Greg said, interrupting John’s train of thought. “What harm could it do?”

“A great deal,” John warned.

“Oh, please. I’m a homicide detective. I’ve seen just about everything. Let’s have it.”

“Sex,” John told him bluntly, feeling a big bubble of satisfaction fill his chest when Greg’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. 

“Come again?” Greg choked out.

“That’s the problem, I can’t.” John told him.

“Can’t…Oh. Oh. Oh.” The first ‘oh’ sounded like realization, the second like understanding, but the third had definitely been sympathy. “Does Sherlock not want…?” Greg trailed off, unable to finish the question. He would talk to John about the problem, hopefully help him find a solution, but he would rather avoid picturing the two together in compromising positions if at all possible.

“I don’t think him wanting to do it is an issue. He seemed to enjoy our first…encounter.” John hedged for Greg’s benefit.

“Is it the medication you’re on?” Greg tried.

“That seems the most likely choice.”

“Well, that’s easy enough. Talk to your doctor about it. Mahoney, right?” Greg asked. “He can probably prescribe you something that will give you some energy back.”

“Maybe,” John shrugged. “But how do you ask for something to help reawaken your sex drive without it just getting awkward?” Knowing the question was silly, did not stop the concern and general dread regarding the possible discussion.

“He’s a doctor. More, he’s a doctor who has seen hundreds of cancer patients of all shapes and sizes, and varying levels of infection. I am sure he has been asked that same question by more men and women than he can even remember.” Greg tried for patience, though he desperately wanted to chuckle at John’s reluctance to discuss shagging with someone in the medical profession. 

“But probably not from a bloke who wants to shag another bloke.” The statement was said so quietly, Greg almost missed it. Then, he wished he had missed it.

“John Watson, seriously? You actually believe anyone in the medical profession holds sexual orientation against any of their patients? Not only is that illegal, but it also goes against that bloody oath you all swore at the beginning of your careers!” Greg’s face was hard and his eyes narrowed on John.

“I-“

“Would you have held it against a person who came to you with a question about sex, if that person happened to be fucking a person of the same gender?” Greg continued.

John looked down at his hands, properly chastised. “No. Of course not.”

“I want to shag Mycroft, do you want to insult me or call me a poof or a fairy?” 

“No!” John nearly shouted in his rush to deny such a horrible idea. “I would never think less of someone just because they happen to love someone who shares the same parts as he or she does. That’s ignorant and terrible.”

Greg felt his shoulders relax a little. “Then, trust Mahoney to listen to your problem and help you as much as he can. I’m sure he won’t even have to think twice about possible solutions once you ask him. Like I said before, I bet he gets this a lot.”

“Alright. Point taken.” Shifting until his back was against the pillow in a much more comfortable position, John shot a sideways glance at Greg. “You really like him, huh?” 

“Mycroft? Yeah.” Greg nodded his head, not even trying to hide or deny his feelings for the elder Holmes. “He’s different from anyone else I’ve dated. All polish and ice. I just want to…mess his hair up and crack the ice.”

John chuckled, “I think you are doing a remarkable job so far.”

“What?” Greg asked, confusion written all over his face.

“You didn’t see him smiling at you? It was a little smile, but it was still new. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile unless it was derisive or snide and aimed at one of us lesser beings.” John smiled. “I’m actually kind of glad.”

“About what?” Greg asked.

“Now I’m not the only person dating a Holmes. We can add our frustrations with them to the weekly get-togethers.”

“Sounds good.” Greg grinned. “You really think he’s melting, even a little?”

“Yeah,” John acknowledged. “Who knows. Maybe this will even make the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock less…formal.”

“That would be nice.” Greg nodded at the thought. “Myc really cares for Sherlock. He just doesn’t know how to show it. I’m starting to think he didn’t have anyone to show him what affection is supposed to be like.”

“That’s actually pretty close, if I’ve got it right. From what I’ve gathered, their childhood after their mum died was pretty much non-existent. The icy Mycroft we’re all so used to is a more tame version of their father Siger.”

“Christ.” Now Greg ran his hand through his own hair.

“I know. Looks like we’ll be the ones showing them how to feel.” John shook his head. “Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m up to the task. It’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to yell at him. He just looks so damn heartbroken when I do.”

“You know, you can just talk to him. Not yell or anything, just…you know. Talk.” 

“There’s talking about things we plan to do that afternoon, then there’s talking about his constant attention and refusal to take cases. Then, there’s talking about sex and how I wish we were having it.” John held out one hand after each option as if planning to weigh them, the last option being the lowest on the scale. “The first one is fine, but the others may hurt.”

“Better he feel slightly offended by a question, than wounded when you end up yelling at him,” Greg said with a pointed look.

“You saw his face, Greg. I hate when he looks at me like that. Like I’ve taken away all his experiments and told him I hate him all at once.” John ran his hand through his hair again and cursed when he pulled away more hair.

“Looks like time for a haircut,” Greg said, then raised his hands in defense when John glared. “I’m not exactly an expert at relationships, but I do know they die if you can’t talk to each other. Just be honest with him. Sherlock would rather sever an artery than upset you, so if he knows what upsets you, maybe he’ll try to curb his actions. Can’t hurt to try.”

“You’re right. I don’t want a repeat of today, ever again if I can help it.” John settled back into the pillows at his back. “So you need him on the case with the gold pieces?”

“Yeah. We’ve got nothing to go on, and I’m sure Sherlock can give us a lead just by looking at a couple of the crime scenes.”

“It’s what he lives for,” John agreed.

“Not anymore.”

While Lestrade braved the doctor’s—John’s bedroom, Mycroft intended to do damage control with his brother. The way Sherlock had jerked back at the whip of John’s voice made a jolt travel down Mycroft’s spine. Sherlock never reacted that way to anyone, least of all someone who seemed to be yelling when it was not necessary.   
Unsure what to do, but knowing enough to realize he should offer some form of comfort, Mycroft stepped closer to Sherlock and placed his hand on his shoulder like he did when Greg seemed hurt. Going with instincts which led him well enough so far, he began to run his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder blade to mid-back then back again in a never-ending series of strokes meant to soothe his younger sibling. 

When Sherlock looked over at him, the sheer volume of pain in his gaze had Mycroft’s own heart squeezing in sympathy then the shutters lowered behind Sherlock’s bright eyes. He stepped away from Mycroft to begin pacing the length of the room in his familiar ‘frustration circuit.’ The initial pull away hurt more than Mycroft thought it might, but he knew his sibling well enough to know Sherlock needed to move. If he stayed still his mind would stay fixed on the event instead of moving to potential solutions—Mycroft thought in the same way, after all. 

“I can’t seem to do anything correctly these days,” Sherlock began. “I’m going crazy, Mycroft. I try to help him as best I know how, but every little thing I do seems to drive him further away. I am running out of ideas on how to fix it.” Sherlock turned to fix Mycroft with a watery gaze that had him taking an involuntary step toward the wounded man.

“I’m sure you are exaggerating,” Mycroft said in an effort to downplay the situation.

“No, I’m really not.” Sherlock paced back, stopping in front of Mycroft then flinging his arm in a wide arc toward the stairs. “You saw it.”

“John is under a great deal of stress…”

“I know!” Sherlock interrupted with a shout. “That’s why I’m trying to take some of his chores away. I make tea, clean, cook, and try to anticipate all of John’s needs so he never has to ask. I watch his favorite shows with him and play violin when he is agitated or can’t sleep. I take him to all his appointments and stay with him during his treatments. What am I doing wrong?”

There wasn’t just pain in Sherlock’s voice—that would have been worrying enough—there was also desperation and fear. Sherlock truly worried that John might leave him, or tell him he can’t take any more and they should no longer be together. The idea seemed ridiculous to him, as he had also seen the look of sorrow and self-hatred in John’s eyes when he caught sight of Sherlock’s face. No. John loved Sherlock as much as his brother loved the doctor. They needed each other to breathe, that much was obvious to anyone with eyes, and Mycroft had exceptional sight. 

“Sherlock, calm down.” Mycroft placed himself directly in front of his brother so their eyes would automatically lock. “He loves you, and you know it. Did you miss the look on his face before he left this room?”

“I don’t miss anything,” Sherlock all but pouted. 

“What did you see?”

“He looked—angry and frustrated.”

“And?” Mycroft persisted.

“Guilty.” Sherlock’s eyes widened with realization. “Why would he look guilty? He has done nothing wrong.”

“I expect he feels guilty for putting that look on your face.”

“What look?” Now, Sherlock simply looked confused.

“The wounded look.” When Sherlock still showed no signs of understanding, Mycroft nearly gave in to the urge to roll his eyes. When had he become so undisciplined in regards to his emotions? “You looked like someone had crushed your will to live, Sherlock. Those ever expressive eyes flashed bright with regret.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“That hardly matters. Perhaps, you should have a seat. We will let Greg and John talk for a while. Do you have any concerns about John’s treatments or schedule?” Mycroft could not think of anything else to ask that would not cause Sherlock undue stress. 

The blush spreading like spilled wine across his sibling’s cheeks alerted Mycroft to the sensitive nature of his next question, but even with the warning Sherlock’s question still surprised Mycroft.

“Have you found any studies regarding the effects of chemotherapy and radiation on the libido?” The flush deepened, but Sherlock pushed through to the end of the question. Mycroft felt his own face heat then suppressed his embarrassment in an effort to remember any data he had encountered regarding the unusual question.

“Not that I recall. Why?” 

“I don’t think John is upset solely due to my—what does he call it? My mother hen tendencies?” Sherlock shook his head at the ridiculous moniker before continuing. “He can’t...he is exhausted from all the therapies and drugs and that exhaustion prevents him from doing many of the things he wants to do.”

“Such as?” Mycroft had a fairly good idea what Sherlock would say next, but he needed to make sure before offering any sort of advice.

“Me.” Sherlock looked anywhere but at Mycroft then turned sharp eyes on his face as if daring Mycroft to say something about their relationship.

“Why don’t you ask Doctor Mahoney? He is an oncologist and has surely faced similar problems with other patients.”

“I believe if I were to broach the subject with John’s doctor without discussing it with him first John would be very angry with me,” Sherlock said, shifting from one foot to another uncomfortably.

“That has never stopped you before,” Mycroft observed.

Sherlock shot him a glare, “That was different.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked.

“He has cancer, Mycroft! Even you know things are different now.”

“Has John changed? Has his personality shifted with his illness? Correct me if I am wrong, but I recall Mummy was just as kind and warm after her diagnosis as she was before it.” Eyeing his brother for sign of impending violence, Mycroft purposefully pushed buttons he knew would get a reaction from Sherlock.

“Don’t.” One word and all the space they had closed in the rift between them began to expand again. 

“Don’t what, Sherlock, talk about Mummy? When will it be alright to talk about her?” Mycroft was dangerously close to showing his temper, and neither of them needed that right now. When Sherlock remained silent, Mycroft stepped closer. “I lost her, too,” he murmured.

That had Sherlock looking up, pain bright in his eyes. “You didn’t seem to care one way or the other.”

“Just because I did not show my pain does not mean I did not feel any. We are not together all the time, Sherlock. I am this way due to the constraints of my chosen profession, but a person cannot stop feeling emotions simply because they are inconvenient. He simply learns to hide them more efficiently.” Mycroft stood in front of his brother now, trying to get him to see passed the mask for once. He could not remember how to lower it, but Sherlock had always been more observant than most.

Understanding dawned on Sherlock, eyes widening as he took in Mycroft’s face as if for the first time. “But you never said anything.”

“To whom? You became inaccessible and despondent, and Father loathes displays of emotions,” Mycroft told him. Sherlock winced. 

“You could have talked to me, Mycroft,” he murmured. “I thought you were just like Him.” The way Sherlock said that word—like poison he needed to spit out immediately lest he suffer the consequences. 

“Like Father?” Mycroft asked, though he already knew the answer.

“You looked exactly the same as him at Mother’s funeral. Cold and bored. As though you wish you were anywhere else, or Mother was just an inconvenience and her death didn’t matter.” Sherlock did not sound accusing, but matter-of fact. He wasn’t trying to incite Mycroft’s anger, just point out how he had appeared to a young Sherlock. 

“That was never my intention. I did not want to make a difficult situation worse by angering our father.” Mycroft tried to make Sherlock understand the reasoning behind his actions at Mummy’s funeral, but it was so long ago, he did not know if the effort would be in vain. 

“I know John is the same,” Sherlock said into the quiet that descended after Mycroft’s explanation. “He is the same person I met all those years ago, but he is not as physically capable anymore.”

Mycroft raised a brow.

“I know how that sounds. I’m just worried.” Sherlock tried again to explain his point of view.

“Let me ask the question another way. When you broke your leg and were confined to a chair for three weeks, did you feel broken or did you still believe you could do everything you used to before you broke a bone?”

“I know he wants to do everything he used to, but he is so tired all the time. I don’t want him to strain himself or get worse because I failed to make his life easy enough.” Sherlock began pacing again and Mycroft lifted his hand to run it over his face before he caught the slip and lowered it back to his side. 

“He is not a child, Sherlock. Why don’t you let him decide when he is too tired to do something? Besides, you haven’t even spoken with his doctor yet. The exhaustion may be a normal side effect, but there are ways to mitigate it enough that John can participate. How do you think he feels when you treat him like a toddler?”

“Terrible,” Sherlock said immediately. “I can see the exasperation in his eyes, but I can’t seem to stop.”

“You are the most observant person I know. Perhaps you should use that skill when determining whether John actually can do what he tells you and when he is merely being stubborn. Everyone has their tells.” Mycroft offered a small smirk, a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth that had Sherlock grinning back at him.

“John can’t look me in the eyes when he is lying.” The admission warmed Mycroft. Sherlock trusted him enough to impart secrets about his lover without the fear of Mycroft using the information against either of them. 

“Then talk to him. I am sure he has similar concerns and cannot think of a way to broach the subject. That is likely the cause of his outburst.”

“I will apologize.” Even as he said it, Lestrade came down the stairs. 

“John wants to see you before we head out,” Lestrade told Sherlock before moving to stand next to Mycroft. 

“Do not worry, Sherlock. I have cleared my schedule and will stay here while you help Greg solve his case.” Mycroft subtly angled his body towards the DI and Sherlock felt a smile curl over his lips. They made a good couple. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock told Mycroft—meaning it just as much as he had the first time he thanked his brother. Walking up the stairs to do some damage control with his lover, Sherlock felt the weight that had settled over his heart that dark day standing by an open grave slide away. He could fix his mistakes and learn from them, and hopefully there would be plenty of time to learn how to avoid making them in the first place.

“Did you have a good chat, then?” Greg asked Mycroft as they watched the detective climb the stairs to John’s room. 

“Yes.” Turning to face Greg completely, Mycroft tilted his head a little to the right. “Were you able to discern what bothered John enough to cause his outburst?”

“Yeah,” Greg grinned at Myc’s stiff, formal way of talking. He really was adorable. “It’s probably the same thing you talked to Sherlock about.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in agreement then cringed a little at the thought. “Though I would prefer not to discuss my little brother’s sex life, if at all possible.” 

Nodding in agreement, Greg stepped closer to Mycroft, invading his personal space enough to make the government official nervous. “So, are we still on for tonight? You aren’t going to cancel again, yeah?” 

The words were a purr of sound that traveled down the length of Mycroft’s spine. “No. Anthea has instructions to contact me only in the instance of a state emergency. Nothing below a nine.” 

“A nine?” Voice whisky rough and equally smoky, Greg moved close enough to feel the heat from Mycroft’s body. “I’m flattered.”

Involuntarily, Mycroft swayed toward Greg, skittering back again as Sherlock came back down the stairs with warmth in his eyes and a smile on his face. “What are we waiting for?” Sweeping into his coat, Sherlock started for the door. “The game is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all so wonderful! I really can't tell you how much I adore each and every one of you, so thank you for your continued support. The next chapter will (finally) have the Mystrade date and some fluffy Johnlock.


	18. Some Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a clue and Mycroft gets a real date.

As Sherlock climbed the stairs to John’s old room he thought about what he would say to him, how he would explain his behavior, and how they could make sure it never happened again. Far from an idiot, Sherlock knew he would make John angry. They would argue and John would huff in the adorable way that made them both grin and laugh after the argument ended, but there had to be a way to keep John from feeling guilty all the time.

Mycroft was right, a phrase he never thought he would believe in the slightest. Sherlock kept John so close on such a constant basis he mistakenly created a worse environment than the one before, which had not been exactly perfect either. It was passed time Sherlock needed to start using the intellect he felt so proud of in order to HELP John. 

As he reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock replayed the scene in his head again. Mycroft and Lestrade came in to see John...wait. No. The signs began before Mycroft and Lestrade arrived only Sherlock had been so wrapped up in his own world he hadn’t noticed at the time. Like observing a high-definition film, Sherlock watched as the John in his memories shifted time and again on the sofa, a small frown marring his handsome face and deepening the longer he sat. The thoughts running through John’s mind should have been easy enough to pick out based on the setting and current set of circumstances. Would have been simple enough if Sherlock bothered to notice. Good God, he’d become as bad as Anderson! 

The scene continued to play through Sherlock’s mind and each new wince on his lover’s face, every cringe and sigh, made Sherlock feel as ignorant as he accused ordinary people of being. Of course, John would blame himself for Sherlock’s seeming depression. No one knew the doctor better than his detective, yet the person who should have been helping him the most only made the situation worse. How could he have been so blind? Obvious, he thought in the same moment as he asked the question. You are only as blind as you allow yourself to be. Instead of focusing all his attention on keeping John’s spirits up, making sure his life continued on with very little change aside from the new treatment schedule and shorter work hours, Sherlock made John feel every bit the invalid he had become. 

No. That was inaccurate. John was not an invalid. He still stayed up a bit late to watch crap telly, still wanted to hear about Sherlock’s day, still ate and drank and slept just like he did before the diagnosis. The only variable, other than the side-effects of chemotherapy and radiation, was Sherlock and how he acted. He couldn’t tell John about the latest case, because he refused to take any, making John feel guilty for ‘holding Sherlock back’ from doing something he loved—or at least for the for the perception of holding Sherlock back. No, he couldn’t stop John from feeling guilty for having cancer or for making everyone worry, but he might have at least tried to mitigate it. 

At the beginning, John looked lost and scared so Sherlock wrapped himself around John and tried to get across how much he was needed him, wanted him, loved him, and how devastated their tight-knit family would be if they lost him. Sometime around the second week of treatment, John no longer seemed lost, instead he became angry. Angry that he suffered from cancer? Perhaps. Angry that he could do nothing but wait for the treatment to work? More likely. Angry that Sherlock kept him on a leash? Definitely. 

It didn’t matter that Sherlock had good intentions, or that he intended to keep John safe because he believed the doctor incapable of keeping himself safe... Oh. Oh. Did he really think that? Based on what? All of his data pointed to the exact opposite of that sentiment. John fought in a war, on multiple occasions based on his rank and time in service, and the only injury he received during his assignments was a single bullet wound to the chest. Not insignificant, of course, but it could have been significantly worse. John followed him through London, chased down murderers, and still managed to emerge in one piece, a feat Sherlock himself could not boast. Why did he presume John incapable of taking care of himself now? Illness should not make that much of a difference.

John had a medical degree, had treated lacerations, bullet wounds, and fractures and maintained a healthy weight and lifestyle through it all. Chemotherapy didn’t change John on a fundamental level. Violetta Holmes had still been Violetta. Deleting almost all of the time between his mother’s diagnosis and her death, not wanting to experience the same pain again, he forgot how lively she’d been up until the final days. Picnics still occurred, Sherlock still played violin for Mycroft and their mother, and they had even spent time horseback riding on her especially good days. The disease stole her strength, but not her vibrancy or thirst for life. She had the same look on her face as John, when Siger admonished her for ‘wasting strength on frivolous antics’—the quickly suppressed temper yielding to empty eyes. He hated that look. It looked bad on his mother, but terrible on John’s once warm and inviting face. 

Reaching the thin wooden barrier, Sherlock ran his fingers over the white paint in a gentle caress. John would never use this room again. Sherlock needed to grow up and start actually helping John instead of playing at it, before he lost the opportunity completely. 

Rapping gently on the door, Sherlock turned the knob and slowly stepped into the room John used to stay in every night. It smelled like him—warm cotton and soothing spice. John sat propped against the headboard looking nervous but resolute. Sherlock bit back on the urge to look down and cringe. This wasn’t about him. Well the fight would be, but not the situation. 

“We need to talk,” John began, eyes watching Sherlock warily as if waiting for him to frown or cry or any of the other things he did when John used that serious tone in the past month. 

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, keeping his emotions in check while he moved to sit at the foot of John’s old bed.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” John continued with a sigh. “It’s just...I’m frustrated and angry and—that isn’t any excuse for my behavior.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Really? I would say those are all valid excuses.”

“I just want—what?” John looked up from where he had been clutching his own fingers in his lap, surprise and confusion played in the deep blue Sherlock loved so much. The fact that John was surprised at Sherlock’s defense spoke volumes and shamed Sherlock even more.

“You have every right to yell, John.” Sherlock watched him with an assessing gaze. “I was acting inappropriately, and you sought to let me know. You were not the one who was wrong, John.”

“I—know,” John admitted. “I could have chosen a different way to tell you, though.”

“The method hardly matters. You needed to express yourself and I haven’t been listening, therefore you spoke louder. Your actions are logical.”

“So, you know why I yelled then?” John asked, tilting his head slightly to the left.

“I was being an arse,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Sherlock...” John gasped, already shaking his head.

“Don’t, John.” Sherlock told him, eyes hardening. “Don’t make excuses for me. I do it well enough for the both of us.” Running a hand through his hair, Sherlock took a breath. “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” John asked.

“I forgot, or deleted, or suppressed the memories of my mother’s illness. In my mind, she goes from healthy to dead with no in-between.” Sherlock looked at John with no sorrow or self-pity or hurt. This time he would relay the facts and move on. “There was, of course, time in between the two events when she carried on with life as usual. Siger would find her outside or in the stables and admonish her for ‘doing more than she was capable of in her condition.’” Sherlock’s voice took on a bitter edge. “Every time, her eyes would darken as though he had chipped away a piece of her spirit.”

John listened to the story patiently, not interrupting or reaching out to offer comfort. 

“I didn’t realize, didn’t see how similar I became. I stopped seeing you as John Watson and started seeing you solely as a cancer patient. That was my mistake. For some reason, I began treating you as incompetent and weak, which is far from accurate. I am sorry for my behavior, and I intend to do better.”

John sat in stunned silence. He hated the way Sherlock treated him—like he was made of spun sugar—but John hadn’t realized why. Everything, aside from feeling exhausted and the intermittent pain in his chest, seemed the same. John wanted to run through the streets with Sherlock, take a walk through the park, and diagnose the flu and runny noses before returning to their flat and starting all over again. Perhaps in between the hectic dashes, they could steal moments for heated kisses and needy touches. He wanted to live. 

“I could have spoken up sooner,” John offered, trying to shift the blame away from Sherlock.

“That would require me to listen, John.” Moving closer to his best friend, Sherlock cupped his chin and forced their eyes to meet. “I am the most observant person you know. If I had payed the slightest bit of attention to you instead of wallowing in my own fears, I would have noticed how my actions affected you. I didn’t. No amount of talking would have alerted me to what I was unwilling to see.” Sherlock moved even closer, but kept their gazes locked. “I told you I would fight as long as you would then I gave up. I have no excuse. I love you and I trust you will let me know when something is too much to handle. Until then, let’s solve some murders.”

John stared back at Sherlock, eyes lighting up with interest and a joy so deep it made the air in Sherlock’s lungs still. This is how he should look all the time, Sherlock thought. Just like this. Without warning, John moved forward and caught Sherlock’s mouth in a firm kiss. 

“I would like that very much.” A grin spread over John’s face, taking the lines that formed over the past month away and making John appear ten years younger. He looked lighter and the happiness in those deep blue eyes found its way into Sherlock’s heart. 

“And you know you can trust me to not fall apart if you yell or get angry.” John nodded with a smile on his lips and a gleam in his eyes that had been conspicuously absent for far too long. “You get dressed and I will tell our guests about the change of plans.” Excitement shifted from John to Sherlock and back again. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this until he forced them to hole up in their flat like those afraid of contracting the plague.

“Wait!” John gripped Sherlock’s wrist, halting his movement to the door. At Sherlock’s quizzical look, John shifted a little, feeling an embarrassed flush rise to his cheeks. “There was something else I wanted to ask.”

Without a word, Sherlock sat down again, pulling John’s hand into his lap to warm the slightly chilly fingers between his hands. He rubbed his thumb over the knuckles as he waited patiently for John to find the words he needed. 

“I am feeling really tired lately, and I think it’s affecting...mysexdrive.” The last few words emerged as one and Sherlock had to replay it twice in his mind before he caught the individual words. Once he managed to decode the sentence, Sherlock blushed as fiercely as John.

“We can mention it during your next appointment,” Sherlock suggested gently. One look at John’s face told him his doctor would rather drink ipecac. “Or we can call Doctor Mahoney tomorrow. I am sure he has received this question many times. It may simply be a matter of shifting the dosage or the type of medication you are on.”

“So, you don’t mind the fact that I want to have sex with you?” John asked cautiously, watching Sherlock’s face in a manner that made the detective glow with pride. The subject of John’s question had disbelief shifting Sherlock’s features a moment before he leaned forward and caught John’s mouth in a deep kiss that spoke of need and passion. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and tugged as if trying to pull him closer and a moan spilled between them, neither knowing who released the sound. After a moment, Sherlock pulled back to rest his forehead lightly on John’s. 

“I want to be with you in any way I can. In EVERY way I can. We will call Mahoney right now and see what can be done.” 

While Sherlock spoke to the doctor, John dressed in soft denims and one of his softer jumpers, his face glowing with energy and vitality. The medication may have made him tired, but the weight of suppressing his wants and feelings caused the exhaustion. Seeing such a rapid shift, Sherlock knew John would have plenty of energy once Mahoney shifted his medication and John knew he didn’t have to hide how terrible he felt from the person with whom he spent the majority of his days. Sherlock passed the phone to John so he could detail the newest symptoms more efficiently and placed a sweeter kiss to John’s smiling mouth. John gestured for Sherlock to wait for him downstairs, and Sherlock nodded, sweeping from the room to grab their coats. 

Mycroft nearly leaped back from Lestrade when Sherlock entered the room, and the move caused a grin to cover Sherlock’s mouth. Swirling his coat on and grabbing his favorite scarf, Sherlock looked back at Lestrade. “What are we waiting for? The game is on.” 

He grabbed John’s coat and scarf on his way to the door and turned to wait patiently for his partner. Lestrade and Mycroft followed closely behind him and paused in confusion when they found Sherlock waiting by the door. They exchanged a look as John hurried down the stairs and into the entryway. Sherlock handed him the coat and looped the scarf around his neck, kissing him slowly in the process. “Ready?” Sherlock asked with a smile.

“God, yes.” John slid his hand into Sherlock’s as his detective pulled the door open and they slid out into the frigid air. Greg followed behind them along with Mycroft, who looked the most perplexed of the four of them.

“I believe you have neglected to tell us something, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him after clearing his throat. 

“Right. John will be helping me with this case. We’ll call if we need you.” Sherlock spoke over his shoulder as he lifted his free hand to hail a cab. “Thank you for offering to stay with John, but it is no longer necessary.”

“Sorry for the bother,” John muttered with a small blush across his nose.

“Don’t be silly, John. You had no idea I would be here today, and we knew there would be alternatives to our idea which would work just as well.” Mycroft offered a rusty, stilted smile which might have doubled as a grimace on anyone else. “I am glad you found one. I have plenty to do to keep me occupied until 6:30.”

“What happens at 6:30?” John asked. Now Mycroft blushed, and glanced surreptitiously at Greg. 

“My brother and Inspector Lestrade have their first date tonight. I believe Lestrade chose the venue as he was the one to ask Mycroft on the date,” Sherlock informed John, squeezing his hand.   
“Yeah, so we have a time limit at the crime scenes. That work for you?” Greg asked, looking between Sherlock and John.

“It shouldn’t be a problem. John is efficient and I hate wasting time.” A cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock waited for John to climb in before following after him. “Are you coming?”

Lestrade sighed and turned to wink at Mycroft. “I will see you tonight.” He turned and climbed into the cab, closing the door behind him. 

“When did they start dating?” John whispered to Sherlock as the cab pulled away.

 

Greg stumbled into his apartment, already shedding his coat as he walked over to his closet to pull his only suit from the dark depths of subspace. The moment Mycroft agreed to go on a date with him, Greg started dusting off his best suit, trying it on to make sure it still fit, and planning the evening down to the last detail so Mycroft could sit back and enjoy their time together. That had been a month ago. Since the initial date and time was set, Mycroft or Greg or both had cancelled the date due to short notice issues both domestic and international. Only Anthea’s insistence that she could more than handle one night without the supervision of her employer ensured this date would occur. The wonderful assistant all but shoved Mycroft out the door, promising to lock it behind him. 

Snickering at the thought of the slight woman kicking Mycroft out of his office, Greg gently placed his suit on his hard as a brick mattress and moved to his tiny bathroom, intent on taking a thorough shower before he went to pick up his date. If the way he dressed on average was any indication, Greg would need to work to look like he belonged next to Mycroft instead of shining his shoes at the Diogenes. 

Doing research happened to be one of the things Greg excelled at, and he used all of his well-honed skills to figure out what the secret agent might like to do on a date. Dinner and a show seemed too ordinary for the suave government official. A pub seemed too lowly and a walk seemed too...sedate. After speaking with Anthea and Sherlock, Greg felt he had the perfect plan. He couldn’t afford to take Mycroft on expensive dates all the time, but he could afford to make their first date special. 

Step one, springing for box seats at the Coliseum’s showing of Rodelinda. According to Anthea, the show was one of Handel’s best with both a poignant and heartwarming story full of action, betrayal, and romance. Box X was Mycroft’s favored position in the theater as it offered a full view of the scenery and show without being too close to the stage or any other box. The position allowed for premium viewing and privacy, which Greg definitely liked. Never having seen an opera, Greg asked for one he would be least likely to fall asleep during that would also be date appropriate. Judging by the book, he would be well engrossed in the story and too invested in the characters to ruin the date by snoring. 

Greg washed his hair and skin with peppermint soap, scrubbing away crime scene dust and the smell of death. Sherlock and John worked like two cogs in the same clock, complimenting each other in such a way as to power the ability to solve the problems raised at the scene. Sherlock noted the lack of scratches on the door which propelled John toward the windows to check for signs of entry. No signs on any windows caused Sherlock to begin tapping on the walls which influenced John to begin tapping on floorboards, finding a crawlspace that led under the staircase to a back door or sorts. In less time than it took the cab to get to the scene, Sherlock knew motive and likely next target and had narrowed the suspect list from two to one. All they had to do now was wait for the killer to make a move. 

Toweling dry, Greg stepped in front of the mirror to shave and add a dash of spicy cologne to his skin. He felt refreshed and more optimistic than he had in weeks as he moved back into his bedroom and began putting on the suit. Classic lines hugged his shoulders and waist perfectly, complimented by the crisp, cream colored button down he wore underneath the jacket. He ran his hand over his hair one last time, made sure his suit was wrinkle free and his shoes polished to a shine, then pulled on his overcoat and stepped outside to hail a cab. 

A car already sat at the curb when Greg stepped into the chilly night air, and the familiar tinted windows made Greg shake his head with a chuckle. He stepped up to the car as the window lowered to reveal icy blue eyes and deep red curls worn looser than usual. The lack of extra product to slick the curls into submission gave Mycroft almost a boyish charm and made Greg lick his lips in appreciation.

“Do you always have to be in control?” Greg asked with a laugh, leaning down to better see Mycroft through the open window. A blush rose to his cheeks, but the eyes revealed nothing. A small shrug was the only other sign that Mycroft heard him at all.

“Why waste money on a cab when I am issued a car for my personal use?” Mycroft’s tone seemed cool on the surface, but his eyes swept heatedly over Greg’s form. “Are you planning on telling me where we are going?”

“No,” Greg told him with another grin. “Now slide over, it’s cold out here.” The door popped open and Greg slid inside, pulling the heavy metal shut behind him with a muted thud. 

“How will William know where to go if you do not tell him?” Mycroft asked, as though he had no interest in the information himself. The fact that the driver happened to be in the same vehicle as Mycroft, therefore placing him within earshot of the information was neither here nor there. 

“I told Anthea to let him know our plans for tonight in case you decided to bring the car,” Greg told him. Admiration lit Mycroft’s pale eyes for a moment before he schooled his expression back to mild interest, but the slip put a smile on Greg’s face.

“Well played,” Mycroft told him as the car pulled away from the curb and into traffic. 

The ride was quick and comfortably quiet, with Greg sitting as close to Mycroft as he could without being pushy or inappropriate. William pulled the car over next to the curb in front of the Coliseum and Greg loved watching the surprise and wonder slide behind Mycroft’s eyes. Right as usual, Anthea steered Greg correctly when outlining the evening’s choice of event. Sliding from the car, Greg smiled over at his date, eyes catching on the fastidiously knotted bowtie around Mycroft’s neck. Following the line of buttons from the perfect knot down to the v of fabric connecting the two sides of Mycroft’s suit jacket, then down the long line of his expertly creased black trousers, Greg felt the need to clear his throat. The man looked sinful in the tailored suit, and all Greg could think about was helping him out of it.

“Problem?” Mycroft asked, drawing Greg’s gaze back up to his. Confidence radiated from Mycroft and Greg realized he was seeing the man in his element. This is how the world saw the government official—cool and untouchable with an air of elegance that clung to him like fine silk on bare skin. 

“Not at all,” Greg murmured. Together, they wandered from the car to the doorway, which boasted a butler ushering people into the inviting warmth of the opera house. Rich fabrics or red and gold decorated the space, welcoming guests into cushioned seats. The auditorium rose to a vaulted ceiling of ivory, cream, and swirling gold, inspiring awe in the first-time guests, Greg included. 

Mycroft watched as Greg took in their surroundings with all the wonder of a child and the respect of someone who knew classic taste when he saw it. Warmth seeped into his skin and belly while Greg tried to breathe in the atmosphere. That the DI thought to bring Mycroft to a show at the Coliseum surprised him, but the obvious enjoyment charmed him. It didn’t matter if they were in the balcony or on the floor, watching a ballet or an opera, this moment made the entire evening wonderful. Lights flickered overhead indicating the show would begin soon and Greg turned to Mycroft with a grin that seemed a permanent part of him—instant and guileless. Mycroft knew his co-workers rarely, if ever, saw this smile and felt privileged to have seen it so frequently directed at him.

When Greg led the way to the stairs, Mycroft braced himself for the cramped seating of the upper balcony. Surprise flickered in his mind as Greg took his hand and led him down the welcoming, familiar hallway branching into box seats. He handed the attendant their tickets and Mycroft felt his heart melt a little more when the usher led them to Box X and gestured for them to enter. After telling them to enjoy the show, the usher took his leave and Mycroft moved to their seats. Greg sat down, peering over the rail at the stage and house seats with wonder plain in his eyes.

“This place is incredible,” he whispered, turning to face Mycroft and the stage. 

“I enjoy it.” The sparkle in his eyes told Greg he more than enjoyed it. Lights dimmed and strains of music floated up from the orchestra pit at the foot of the stage. Breath catching, Mycroft turned wide eyes toward his date.

“You brought me to Rodelinda?” he asked, genuinely touched. Mycroft loved the opera, but rarely found the time to indulge. This particular show had been on his list of desired shows for years, but he never had the time.   
Greg smiled gently, “I know you like opera, and Anthea was kind enough to recommend this one.” 

“You asked Anthea what I might like?” Genuine puzzlement colored Mycroft’s tone. No one ever cared enough to ask what Mycroft liked. Usually, Mycroft needed to cater to the tempestuous whims of foreign dignitaries who didn’t much care if Mycroft enjoyed himself or not. 

“Well, yeah.” Greg scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’ve never been to the opera, so I don’t know which ones are good and which ones are rubbish. Why? Is this one bad?”

“No,” Mycroft said, keeping his eyes on Greg. “No, this is perfect.” Greg might have flushed, but the dim lighting kept Mycroft from seeing. The curtains rose and both Mycroft and Greg were swept into a world of color and drama so fascinating they barely noticed the time passing. 

Before long, the curtain dropped, the lights brightened, and intermission began. Leaving their seats, Mycroft and Greg wandered into the elaborate auditorium for coffee and light refreshments, and Mycroft took in Greg’s appearance once more. He always looked roguishly handsome with his five o’clock shadow and tousled silver hair, but tonight he looked downright rakish. The polish added a layer of intrigue to the Inspector’s presence, causing more than a few heads to turn in their direction while they sipped on smooth coffee. Greg didn’t notice any of them, or if he did he ignored them. Those deep brown eyes followed Mycroft’s every move as if committing them to memory for later study. The attention both flattered and rattled Mycroft.

Far from being ignored during meetings or diplomatic events, Mycroft usually fell into the middle of the pack, neither devastatingly handsome nor unfortunately homely. As a result, women tended to pass him over, or look but never approach. Men were a tad bolder and usually struck up conversations with him, but left upon realizing a layer of ice coated him under all the expensive clothing and smooth veneer. Greg would hardly be his first lover, but he was the first to approach Mycroft instead of waiting to be approached. The shift made his stomach flutter and nerves prickle along his skin.

“You alright, Myc?” Greg’s concerned question dragged Mycroft from his thoughts.

“Of course.”

“What do you think of the show so far?” Greg asked, taking another sip of his coffee. Mycroft watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and licked his lips.

“It is most enjoyable.” Amusement sparkled in Greg’s eyes when Mycroft looked back up into his gaze. 

“I like it, too.” 

“Really?” Mycroft couldn’t keep the joy out of his voice, the obvious relief at Greg’s enjoyment of one of his favorite pastimes. “I didn’t expect you would.”  
“Are you kidding? What’s not to like? There’s so much drama just in the movement of the singers, then you add in the music and you can’t help but fall into the story. I hope Garibaldo gets what he deserves in the end. What a horrible excuse for a human being. I hope Rodelinda learns that her husband is still alive, but then I suppose that’s almost worse isn’t it?” 

“How so?” Mycroft asked, loving how interested Greg was in the story.

“If she learns Bertarido is alive, then she’ll feel like she betrayed him, and she’ll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life.” Greg shook his head. “Maybe it would be better if she never found out and continued on without him.”

“But then she will never be with the love of her life again,” Mycroft argued.

“She won’t anyway. She married Grimoaldo. You can’t be married to two people at once.”

“Since Bertarido never really died, any subsequent marriage would be null and void. Illegal, as it were, and invalid.” Mycroft set aside his cup as the lights flickered. The whole way back to the box, they discussed the merit of potential outcomes, and Mycroft had never enjoyed a date so much in his life. 

The show ended with everyone finding love and a place to belong, which gave a rosy glow to the already wonderful evening. Gliding through the streets in the black car, Mycroft and Greg recounted the finer points of the opera and the moments which surprised them. Pulling up to the building holding Greg’s flat, Mycroft felt true disappointment that the evening had to end. He walked Greg to the door and stood in the cold next to the man who went out of his way to ensure Mycroft had a wonderful time. Who had tried something new just to please Mycroft. 

“That was fun,” Greg enthused. “We’ll have to do it again, soon.” Mycroft didn’t answer with words. Gliding forward until his body pressed against Greg’s from their hips to their chests, Mycroft cupped Greg’s face in his hands and pulled him under. It felt like sinking into a warm pool of water—all heat and silk. Greg hummed into the kiss and let Mycroft set the pace. Heat shimmered between them, but Mycroft pulled away before it began to sizzle.

“I get to choose where we go on the next date,” Mycroft told a dazed Greg. With one final kiss, Mycroft thanked him for a wonderful evening, bid him goodnight, and went back to his car. Greg grinned as he floated up to his flat. Oh, he was in serious trouble, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else he would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this at the end of every chapter, but I really do appreciate each and every one of you. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and look forward to some Johnlock fluff and tumble. The next chapter will have some comfort and some steam.


	19. Show Me Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get back to normal...relatively.

Wonderful—inadequate. Perfect—inaccurate. Domestic—too ordinary. No word could explain how right, how easy, the past week had been. How could Sherlock have forgotten how effortlessly they fit together? John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. So obvious. All those cases worked together, late nights and burgeoning headaches that seemed to ebb and flow like the tides. Their partnership felt so natural there couldn’t be any doubt about their roles—John pushed Sherlock who pulled John in a never ending flow around the crime scene. Blissful—closer. He took it for granted, Sherlock realized. For the first time, Sherlock took a step back from examining floorboards, windows, locks, and blood spatter patterns to observe how John moved with him in a sort of dance.

Every move John made pushed Sherlock into a move, which nudged John in a new direction so on and so forth until the scene yielded no more information and the crime held no more mystery. Before the doctor, Sherlock poured over case files and sometimes needed to double check facts in order to solve the case. Despite having a skull to bounce ideas off of, Sherlock needed someone who talked back, contradicted, or flat out argued with him. John did all of those things and more. Just as he explained when they worked their first case together, genius needed an audience and Sherlock was not an exception.  
John provided him with a constant audience who never hid awe or censure, but broadcasted both loud enough for a city block to hear. Keeping him on track and in touch with not only the facts according to hard evidence but with facts derived from an emotional standpoint, John enabled Sherlock to catch pieces of the situation he might have missed otherwise.

“There’s no blood around the heart,” John mused within six point five seconds of arriving on the scene with Lestrade. Anderson looked up almost immediately, a sneer plastered to his narrow face. 

“Oh, perfect. The nuisance and his faithful pet,” Anderson scoffed. “Well, you’re too late to do any good now. This case is practically solved.”

Before Sherlock could begin to reply, John spoke up. “Oh, yes. You clearly have everything well in hand, seeing as your superior called Sherlock in for advice. By the way, how long has this case been open now? A month and a half, yeah? Solid effort, but I think Sherlock can take it from here so no one else has to die to appease your ego.”

Pride swelled in Sherlock’s chest as he fought not to kiss John in front of half of Scotland Yard. “We, John.” His doctor cast a confused look his way. “We will take it from here.”

A smirk curled on the right side of John’s mouth, “That’s right.” 

Striding to the other side of the room, Sherlock began noting abnormalities with the scene. The first three appeared sloppy. Disjointed. Almost as though the killer had no idea what he was doing, or simply didn’t care about leaving potential evidence. This scene looked exactly the opposite. Where blood stained the floor in obvious patterns in the first three, this time there was no blood whatsoever. 

“No signs of tampering with the locks on the door. Not even a scratch,” Sherlock told John from the other side of the room. Striding closer to the walls, John noted the lack of splintering or scratches on the window panes and locks. 

“None on the windows either.” Even as he spoke, John began tapping at the floor while Sherlock searched the walls. 

“You think we didn’t already do that?” Anderson asked angrily. “We’re not stupid.”

“That is debatable,” Sherlock murmured as he finished his preemptory examination.

“Sherlock,” John called from by the staircase. Sure, steady fingers encased in latex brushed over the plush, tawny rug on the floor, coming away wet. Deep blue eyes looked to Sherlock with confusion, but Sherlock was too busy grinning like an idiot. 

“The staircase,” he said with glee evident on his face. Tilting their heads back, both John and Sherlock looked at the paneled wall. No grooves in the floor meant the door must swing out into the passage instead of into the room. 

“What?” Anderson moved closer to try and hear what they were muttering. 

“The rug is wet,” Sherlock told him, voice stilted and crisp. “Obviously a passage was open at some point seeing as this is the only fabric in the room covered in water.”

“Someone could have spilled water,” Anderson tried, moving closer still. “People don’t have secret passageways in their homes. That’s ridiculous.”

“Look at the pattern.” Sherlock gestured to the slightly darker section of fabric closest to the wall, fingers of moisture stretching out from the main patch. “Someone spilled water while standing against the wall under the stairs?”

“Maybe,” Anderson sulked, crossing his arms over his spindly chest. 

“How often do you drink water while hiding under your stairs?” Lestrade asked as he came up behind John’s still kneeling form. “So, there’s a door here somewhere. Near this panel, yeah?” Pressing his gloved hands against the wall in front of the watermark, Lestrade gave a solid push. A sharp click sounded in the room as the door popped open and swung out onto the garden, still damp from the latest rain shower. 

“If it only opens from this side,” John pointed out, “then the murderer was already in the house.”

“Or whoever cleaned up after the murderer was in the house, knew about this door, and how to open it,” Lestrade murmured. “The heart and coin are over there,” he gestured to the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace. 

Taking the hint, John moved over to the heart at the exact same time as Sherlock, though the latter picked up the coin to study, knowing John would get more information from the heart than the gold piece. John settled into a comfortable crouch beside the heart and cringed. Lifting his hand to rub at the incessant stabbing pain in his chest, John tried to ignore it so he could study the muscle. He took short, shallow breaths as he leaned closer, trying to see patterns or anomalies based on what he could remember from the start of the case. It took him a full minute to realize something was off. “Sherlock.”

“Late 19th century,” Sherlock murmured. It didn’t make any sense. The other coins on file weighed in at barely six ounces which marked them as early 19th century, possibly late 18th century, before Isabella the Second changed the currency. This coin weighed around eight ounces. The scene appeared clean and sterile, not messy and haphazard. Criminals often became more careless as they grew comfortable with their kills, beginning to believe they could not be caught simply because the police had not arrested them thus far. In all his years, Sherlock never came across a criminal who suddenly became meticulous enough to clean blood stains and ensure the floor around the rug remained dry. No signs of forced entry. No wayward pieces of evidence. It just didn’t make sense.

“Sherlock,” John’s insistent stage whisper pulled Sherlock’s gaze to him, breaking his line of thought. Before Sherlock had the chance to snap at him, John pointed to the heart. 

“The cuts are jagged. He didn’t use the same blade.”

Eyes widening in realization, Sherlock caught John’s face between his hands and pulled him in for a quick, but thorough kiss. “You’re brilliant,” he said as he pulled back a scant inch so he could look into John’s surprised eyes. Surprised as he felt, John still smiled back at Sherlock, willing to bet his detective would explain just how brilliant in his usual dramatic fashion. 

Coat swishing at his ankles, Sherlock faced the room at large and for once Anderson had nothing to say. His mouth hung open and Donovan stared between John and Sherlock with equal parts wonder and disgust. “Do you understand, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, completely ignoring the other two. 

“A different blade was used to remove this heart,” Lestrade shrugged. “That’s pretty straightforward.”

“Different methods, different coins, different setting…” Sherlock pressed in an attempt to lead Lestrade to the painfully obvious conclusion.

“Different killer,” John said from his place behind Sherlock. He stood up and brushed off his knees, pulling the gloves off as well. 

“Exactly.” Sherlock turned to smile triumphantly at John. “I need to see the rest of the case files. If this one is a copycat, how many of the others are?”

“None,” Lestrade told him, watching the byplay between detective and doctor with an indulgent smile. “Particles found on the other hearts all match. If you’re right, the ones on this heart won’t. Sorry I called you in on the wrong case.”

“But you didn’t.” Sherlock faced Lestrade again, grinning almost manically now. “Did you notice the door on this house?” At the blank looks, Sherlock continued, “No mail slot. We are in Chelsea at a residence where no mail arrives. Only foreign dignitaries or diplomats stay in this area and, as you might imagine, they do not receive mail because they are rarely here for long or their security detail intercepts it for safety purposes. Of the diplomats in the area who have been in Chelsea as long as these murders have been occurring, only one has a medical degree and ready access to the coins found at each site—the Ambassador of Spain. You should ask Mycroft for his assistance in apprehending the diplomat.”

“Why would the Ambassador leave evidence in the place he was staying? That’s like asking to be caught.” Anderson smirked at Sherlock, believing he punched a hole in the theory. 

“Because the Ambassador did not commit this murder,” John murmured. 

“You said there were two,” Lestrade said at the same time. 

“The reason the other scenes appeared sloppy is because he has diplomatic immunity. He believes himself above British law. This murder is almost perfectly clean. Not a trace of evidence.” Sherlock gestured to the room.

“The coin…” Donovan began.

“A decoy.” Sherlock stared at her when she just looked even more confused and irritated. “Oh, come on! This murder was made to look like the others to avoid suspicion. This killer does not have the same diplomatic safety net, so the scene needed to be flawless. At the same time, the police would investigate, and if he missed anything he believed you would automatically assume the same person conducted each of the murders due to the heart and coin. Contact Mycroft for a list of the Ambassador’s staff. Your killer is among them. He knew about the escape panel under the stairs, therefore he had to be an immediate employee. You should really see about getting better officers, Lestrade. These two are useless.”

Grinning now, John walked up to Sherlock and slid his hand into his detective’s. “Incredible.”

“I’ll let my superiors know, and they will likely be in contact with Myc before the week’s end. Unlike you, I have to follow protocol.”

“Boring,” John and Sherlock scoffed, smiling at each other. 

Moments later they were hailing a cab and headed back to their flat for some well-earned rest. On the way, John talked animatedly to Sherlock about who in the household might be responsible. Someone with access to knives was obvious, but it also had to be someone who knew intimate details of the previous crimes. 

“Perhaps one of his employees participated,” John mused as Sherlock paid the cabbie and walked to their door. 

“More likely, one of his employees realized what the Ambassador was doing in his spare time and decided to intervene. I will be unsurprised if the heart Lestrade recovered today turns out to be the Ambassador’s.” Languidly climbing the stairs, John reached the flat first, pushed through the door, and moved directly into the kitchen to make tea. 

Sherlock slid his coat off and placed it on the rack by the door, following behind his doctor who had just put the kettle onto the stove. He moved behind John, arms encircling his waist while his head lowered so Sherlock could rest his chin on John’s shoulder and breathe him in. 

“I bet it’s the security lead,” John mumbled, leaning back into Sherlock’s arms. “They are chosen for having strong moral principles and being loyal.”

“Killing the Ambassador does not strike me as particularly moral or loyal,” Sherlock hummed while nosing into the hollow of John’s shoulder and neck.

“Loyal to their country,” John breathed, tilting his head to offer Sherlock better access. “If someone threatens the welfare of Spain and its people, the guard wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate the threat.”

“The public will still know that the Spanish Ambassador murdered seven British citizens.” He nipped at John’s skin, then swirled his tongue over the abused portion to soothe the sting. 

“And that Spain took care of the problem, however misguided or objectionable the method.” John’s breathing hitched slightly on the word ‘objectionable.’ “What are you doing?” 

“Holding you,” Sherlock mumbled into the warm skin under his mouth. John felt heat pool low even though he knew it would be at least a week with the new medication before he would be able to do what he wanted with Sherlock. Once he had his energy back, they would check a whole slew of firsts off from both of their lists. John would make it a personal goal to exhaust the detective as thoroughly as possible.

“Holding doesn’t usually involve lips,” John told the man currently wrapped around him. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” He felt Sherlock’s lips curve against his skin and the pang in his chest this time felt warm and drugging. It was definitely a good day.

 

That had been the start of their reconciliation. True to his word, Sherlock took more cases and dragged John along on every single outing, unless John told him he was tired. Of the four cases they’d been on together, John only asked to leave one early, his limbs feeling heavy and his breathing labored. Without a word, Sherlock stepped under the yellow tape with John and they both hopped in a taxi. After a two hour long nap, Sherlock pulled the case file from its cheerful manila folder and spread the pictures out on the bed spread to pour over. They’d worked for another hour before John pulled Sherlock away for food and an impromptu snogging session. 

Even the appointment with Dr. Mahoney went better than John expected. Sherlock asked if John wanted him there, or if he would prefer to go alone, stayed quiet through the entire appointment even though John knew the lanky git likely had several questions he wanted to ask, and allowed John to pose questions at his own pace. 

For his part, John had been a bit of a nervous wreck. What if Mahoney said there was nothing he could do? Did cancer patients even get a choice about taking erectile dysfunction medication while undergoing extensive chemo and radiation treatments? Would he need ED meds? If he took them, would they help? These questions and more stumbled over one another in John’s head until his temples pounded and his stomach rolled. 

Taking a seat in one of the chairs next to the examination table, John clutched his fingers in his lap and tried to remind himself that he was an ex-army doctor who faced down more than his fair share of rifle muzzles without flinching. Hell, he’d been strapped to Semtex and kept his composure, so this should be nothing. Sherlock sat beside him, close enough to offer warmth, but not so close as to remind John that Sherlock wanted the problem fixed just as much as he did. It helped. Knowing Sherlock sat beside him offering moral support yet not adding to the pressure John already felt weighing on his shoulders…it was nice. Tuning in to Sherlock’s breathing patterns, John slowed his own breaths to match the detective, a calm stealing over him just in time for Mahoney to knock and open the door.

“Hello, John,” he said, offering his hand for a firm handshake. “Sherlock,” Mahoney moved to clasp Sherlock’s hand as well then moved to sit in front of his computer. Tapping away on the keys, the doctor pulled up John’s file and skimmed over it briefly. “So, we spoke on the phone and you mentioned some concerns about your fatigue.”

“Yes,” John answered smoothly, mentally patting himself on the back for keeping a waver out of the tone. “I’ve been exhausted lately. Well, less so today, but still more tired than is comfortable.” Mahoney crossed his legs as he watched John with a quiet intensity John knew he, himself, wore in front of his especially difficult patients.

“I know the treatment causes fatigue,” John continued resolutely, “but this much?”

“I’m sorry,” Mahoney shook his head. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific. What are some of the things you used to do that you now find difficult?”

“Everything,” John hedged. Mahoney arched a brow and John sighed. “I used to go on cases with Sherlock, run all over London, work at the clinic, help with research, blog, and—have sex.” John finished the end with only a slight pause in his voice, mentally patting himself on the back again for getting through the admission with only the small hitch. 

“I see.” Mahoney turned to click through John’s data, “According to your file, you no longer work at the clinic. Did you pick up work somewhere else?”

“No, I didn’t think I should continue to work around sick people...” voice full of confusion, John looked at Sherlock for confirmation.

“That is what I have read,” Sherlock agreed.

“You want to stay away from infectious people, that’s true. The therapies you are currently undergoing weaken your immune system, so staying as healthy as possible is important. That doesn’t mean you have to stop working all together.” When John appeared puzzled Mahoney continued. “You can still have a job, John. In fact, we’ve found that patients who get regular exercise and participate in a daily routine similar to their pre-diagnosis routine have more energy than those who don’t. There are many options we could try, but as it stands right now, there aren’t many guaranteed treatments for cancer related fatigue.”

“So, there’s nothing we can do?” John asked, looking crestfallen. 

“That’s not what I meant.” Shifting in his chair, Mahoney looked between Sherlock and John then settled his gaze back on his patient. “I am going to recommend that you try doing the things that you used to do prior to the start of your treatment, with the exception of your job. If you usually run through the streets of London an hour each day, try running through them for fifteen minutes a day, then half an hour, then an hour. If you usually go to crime scenes, go to crime scenes. Just try to wear a medical mask when plausible. In about a week we will see where your energy levels are and if they aren’t back to an acceptable range we’ll start looking at some of the medical alternatives.”

“And sex?” John prodded.

“As you get more energy back, your sex drive should return as well. From what you told me over the phone and today, you still have the desire to participate, you just lack the energy.” Mahoney wheeled back around to face the computer as John sighed with relief and turned a smile on Sherlock.

“Now, on to other matters,” Mahoney said. “Remember the tests I had you go through during your last treatment session?” 

“Yeah...” the end of the word rose in pitch, making what should have been a statement a question. “What about them?”

“The results came in yesterday. I would have called you in, but you beat me to it.” Mahoney smiled at John then typed in a few notes. “I have some very good news. You are responding remarkably well to your treatments. The tumor in your lung has shrunk significantly. If it continues like this, the mass should be operable within another month or so.”

Air caught in John’s lungs for a moment. Very good news, indeed, he thought. Turning his head to look at Sherlock, he just caught the happy gleam before Sherlock turned a grin John’s way. He looked...proud. Proud and happy. Warmth curled in John’s belly—warmth that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with affection, joy, and love. Cautious optimism rose in his mind as hope squeezed his heart. “That’s good.”

“Extraordinary, really.” Mahoney tapped more keys and turned the screen so Sherlock and John could both see it. There, sitting side by side, were the images of John’s tumor as of the time of diagnosis and the tumor as of just a couple days ago. Just looking at the image John could see a small difference, but when Mahoney pulled out the ruler and marked the progress, even John had to admit it looked impressive. “I’ve never seen anyone respond so quickly, or so well. I would like to keep your treatment exactly as is, if possible. Unless you are feeling anything other than exhaustion?” Mahoney’s gaze turned sharp and assessing.

“No. Nothing unusual. Just tired and achy, like I mentioned last time,” John told him.

“Alright,” Mahoney clapped his hands together. “Let’s see how increasing your activity works in bringing up your energy levels and go from there, shall we?”

“Yes. Sounds good.” As much as John wanted a quick fix to the problem, if the treatments Mahoney assigned him were working so well, he would rather endure exhaustion for a while longer in order to be cancer free. 

Mahoney scheduled the next appointment for a week from then and wished John well. As soon as the doors closed on the elevator, John found himself pulled into a fierce hug with kisses raining down on the top of his head. 

“I knew you could do it. If anyone can beat cancer, it has to be you.” Sherlock spoke between kisses and John raised his arms to wrap around Sherlock’s waist, a chuckle building in his chest.

“Yeah yeah. You’re brilliant and rarely wrong. I know.” John grinned into Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Hmm.” Sherlock arched an imperious eyebrow as he pulled back from John, staring down his aristocratic nose at him. “Is that sarcasm I hear?” 

Trying to keep a straight face, John shrugged his shoulders and moved out of the elevator as it stopped at the lobby. Sherlock caught up in one long stride and caught John’s hand in his, linking them together all the way out to the curb, the whole taxi ride home, and into their flat. Pulling out one of the most hygienic experiments John had ever seen him conduct, Sherlock took notes and fell into his work while John puttered around the kitchen. Finally settling in with a book, they spent a companionable hour together before taking a walk through Covent Gardens. 

This became the norm for the doctor and his detective over the next week. In between treatment appointments, they would work cases, chase the occasional criminal, read or conduct experiments, eat meals together, watch crap telly or a good film, and go to bed. Each day, John found he could do more. Without the oppressive weight of feeling like a failure in the eyes of his friends and lover, John felt not only lighter but happier. Suddenly, keeping up with Sherlock didn’t seem quite so daunting. He still couldn’t do everything he used to, and he found himself taking an afternoon nap on most days, but he could function almost normally otherwise. And, much to John’s relief, Mahoney had been right about the issue with John’s sex drive, too. Which brought John to the new and delicious tension building between Sherlock and him.

After the affection Sherlock showed at the end of the first case, things…escalated. Since their first foray into sexual fulfillment all those weeks ago, most of Sherlock’s advances seemed affectionate at best and platonic at worst. They went from mutual hand jobs to hugs and chaste pecks on the cheek, temple, forehead, or hand. Now that John worked with Sherlock again, the tension and excitement from the crime scenes seemed to follow them back to the flat in the form of snogging like teenagers as hands groped at hastily revealed skin. Every time they returned to the flat, the heat spiraled higher, wrapping steamy fingers around them. 

The first case, John needed to leave early because he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open. Sherlock gestured at tiny ‘glaring’ details and paced around the room while John watched with amusement. From nowhere, a wave of exhaustion flooded through him almost toppling him to his knees. 

On any other day, Sherlock might have been so caught up with the case that he didn’t even notice John’s sudden lapse, but the relatively new turn in their relationship ensured those assessing eyes followed John more closely than ever before. Finishing his statement, the detective casually made his way over to John’s side, remarked on the state of Anderson’s slacks, and gently led John to a semi-private corner.

“I’m a bit tired, is all,” John explained as soon as they were out of earshot. Further surprising John, Sherlock announced that the officers on the scene should have more than enough evidence to figure the rest out, telling Donovan that if he solved every crime for her, she would never get the chance to use what little intellect she had. He then waited for John to walk out of the room, following behind as though nothing out of the ordinary happened. The only other time John felt that grateful was when the onsite paramedic managed to stymie the blood pouring from his gunshot wound with an I.D. card and some gauze. 

It took twenty minutes for them to get home via taxi, and half that for Sherlock to usher John into comfortable sleep attire and curl around him on their bed. After a two hour long nap, John felt remarkably better and felt delight light up his face when Sherlock proceeded to spread out the case file on the bed and ask John’s opinion. They ordered Chinese and ate on the sofa while watching the latest episode of Dr. Who. 

Slowly, Sherlock gravitated toward John—so slowly, in fact, John didn’t notice until he felt a line of heat pressing into his thigh. Turning his head, he caught sight of Sherlock watching him closely, pale eyes quickly flicking back to the television when they caught John’s movement. Shrugging it off, John went back to watching the show only to start at the feel of fingers settling warm and heavy on the thigh pressed against Sherlock’s. Turning to regard his companion again, John tried to gauge where this was going by the look on the detective’s face, but his face lacked any discernible emotions. This time, as soon as John focused on the show again, Sherlock’s hand slid up his thigh, tickling the inseam of his sleep pants and stirring arousal. 

Though he felt himself twitch with interest, apparently he still lacked enough energy to get a proper erection. That didn’t stop him from crawling into Sherlock’s lap, tunneling his fingers in dark curls, and delving deep into Sherlock’s mouth. Dr. Who played on in the background while Sherlock proved that John could at least become semi-erect still. 

From that case on, their random snogging sessions evolved into blind groping, then into rubbing against one another with pants still on until John finally achieved a full erection. 

It happened after their fourth case which proved even more difficult than the first, quickly devolving into a chase down darkened skips and under bridges. Managing to knock Sherlock into a wall hard enough to daze the detective, the murderer tried to brush past John for a quick getaway only to be abruptly stopped by John’s fist. With the criminal out cold, John yanked out his mobile, called Greg and the paramedics, and collapsed beside Sherlock, pulling his head close to inspect him for wounds. 

“Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?” John asked while gently pawing through the dense chocolate locks. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, John. I can hear you and I am fine. Where is Kemp? Did he get away?” Sherlock tried to brush John’s hands away so he could look around for the man they’d spent the better part of an hour chasing all through London.

“Hold still,” John demanded, his hand brushing over a knot that made Sherlock flinch in surprised pain. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not serious. I didn’t even notice until you poked at it.” Sherlock ducked his head, still trying to squirm enough to see around John.

“You idiot,” John sighed. “You’re not supposed to chase after dangerous criminals at night, unarmed.”

“So, it’s alright if I am armed? You weren’t armed either.” Sherlock finally caught sight of dirt smudged sneakers attached to legs that appeared to be sprawled haphazardly across the pavement. “What happened to Kemp?”

“I didn’t shoot him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” John sat back next to Sherlock and listened as the sirens steadily grew louder. 

“Your hand is bleeding,” Sherlock shifted, grabbing John’s hand to examine the injury. “You punched him?” Eyes wide and searching, Sherlock waited for John to explain.

“In the face,” muttered John as his eyes tracked from Kemp to Sherlock. They stared at one another for another eight seconds then burst out laughing. Giggles and snorts filled the air as Lestrade arrived on the scene and the police arrested their criminal—who still insisted he was innocent. By the time Lestrade cleared them to go home, John felt better than ever and Sherlock looked genuinely happy. The ride back to 221B was quiet, but a gentle hum of anticipation filled the cab until even the driver shifted in his seat uncomfortably. 

Two steps into the flat John shoved Sherlock hard, loving the flash of shock across those aquiline features when his back hit the wall with a solid thud. Not giving him any time to regroup, John pressed against Sherlock, drawing him down into a silky kiss. A deep groan vibrated between them and shifted the kiss from smooth and loving to desperate and needy. Long fingers curled in short blonde hair while John slid a thigh in between his flatmate’s ridiculously long legs. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, pressing into John’s thigh in an effort to get more friction. 

“Hmm?” John pulled Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on the tender flesh until it swelled a little from the treatment and rolling his hips into Sherlock’s for needed friction. Deft fingers delved past John’s coat to curl into the fabric of his jumper tugging him closer. Not even an millimeter of space separated Sherlock’s body from John’s, so every breath either of them took forced their chests to press tighter and their hips to shift enough to send bolts of pleasure through them both. 

The rhythm alternated between a simple and steady rock to frantic grinding as air passed from one to the other in between messy kisses. Sherlock’s hands slid down over John’s arse to pull him closer still, a low moan working in the back of his throat. Licking over the just forming scruff on Sherlock’s jawline, John tried to elicit more of those wonderful noises from the detective. Those long fingers slid around his hip, between their bodies, to cup John through his trousers and just like that he was hard as brick. 

“Sherlock!” he gasped, hips instinctively jerking forward into the firm grip. 

“You win the bet,” Sherlock murmured, a smirk evident in his tone. “It took less than a week. Though,” using his palm, Sherlock added enough pressure to have John dropping his forehead to his lover’s collar with a deep groan, “I believe I am going to win a different sort of prize than the one you decided on.”

With a growl, John jerked Sherlock back into a dizzying kiss, tongue and teeth adding an edge of desperation. “Shut up.”

Coats dropped to the floor along with a jumper, a silk shirt, an undershirt, and a belt. Hands fumbled at buttons that seemed easier to close than to open, all the while their mouths stayed fused together. Patience not being a strong suit with either of them, the tinny sound of a button hitting the floor should not have surprised John, but it shocked him enough to have a chuckle filling the air. The sound lasted just long enough for Sherlock to dip his fingers past elastic to grasp hot, hard flesh. 

“Christ!” John pulled back from the kiss only to find himself caught in Sherlock’s expression. Tousled curls tumbled in a wild array to frame eyes blown dark with lust and need. Color rode sharp cheekbones and settled into full, parted lips. For a moment, John forgot Sherlock’s hand was wrapped around his wonderfully full erection, and simply took in the sight of his soul mate caught up in the heat between them—likely filing and categorizing every moment for later analysis. Beautiful. 

“John.” Sherlock waited for John to look him in the eyes again then offered one long, slow stroke. “Stop thinking and start doing.” Deep blue eyes shuttered, the lashes dipping to cover them for just a moment before rising to half-mast to offer a look so sensual it took Sherlock a moment to remember how to breathe. 

“Bedroom. Now,” John managed to grunt, knowing they would need to be laying down for several of the things he planned to do to Sherlock. Squeezing one last time, Sherlock released his hold on John and pushed him back to start toward the bedroom. Finally, he thought. They would finally be together. It would be wonderful and perfect and blissful. A knock sounded on the door. Who the fuck could that be?

“Ignore it,” Sherlock demanded, already dragging John towards the bedroom.

“Sherlock?” The voice sounded familiar, even muffled by the door. “Mrs. Hudson said to come right in. I just wanted to get your opinion on...oh dear God.” A deep flush covered Mycroft from shirt collar to hairline as he tried to backtrack to the door. “You couldn’t wait to get into the bedroom?”

“You couldn’t wait for an invitation?” Sherlock snapped, body shifting to block John from view. “What was so important you felt the need to barge into our flat at 11 o’clock at night?”

“Nothing. I will come back later. No. I will arrange a meeting at a more convenient hour.” John sighed as Mycroft stumbled his way through a flimsy excuse. Mourning his already flagging erection, John turned to head to the bedroom.

“Give us a few minutes to change,” John told Mycroft, tugging Sherlock behind him so he could be sure the detective wouldn’t hit his brother on principle alone. “You’re already here, anyway.”

The door closed and Sherlock turned to pin John with a pleading, incredulous stare. “Why can’t he come back later?”

“He wouldn’t have come in the first place, if it wasn’t important. We can at least hear him out.” John kicked off his ruined trousers and pulled on sleep pants. A heavy sigh and swish of cloth let him know Sherlock was at least following suit, if not happily. “We’ll help him quickly then pick up where we left off.”

Instantly, hands settled on his waist, turning John until Sherlock could catch him in a drugging kiss that had his head spinning and his knees buckling. “Promise?”

“God, yes.” John kissed him one last time, adjusted his pants, then moved into the living room to try and help the other Holmes with whatever problem he’d created this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to anyone reading this who is from Spain. My intention is not to insult that nation or to imply that the Ambassador is a murderer, it was simply a plot device. The next chapter WILL contain graphic depictions of m/m sex, so if that bothers you, please do not read. Thank you for all of your continued support and thoughtful comments! I hope you all enjoy!


	20. Truly, Madly, Deeply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are finally able to express how the feel without words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains explicit sex between two consenting male adults. If that isn't your cup of tea, please don't read it.

“Ignore it,” Sherlock demanded, already dragging John towards the bedroom.

“Sherlock?” The voice sounded familiar, even muffled by the door. “Mrs. Hudson said to come right in. I just wanted to get your opinion on...oh dear God.” A deep flush covered Mycroft from shirt collar to hairline as he tried to backtrack to the door. “You couldn’t wait to get into the bedroom?”

“You couldn’t wait for an invitation?” Sherlock snapped, body shifting to block John from view. “What was so important you felt the need to barge into our flat at 11 o’clock at night?”

“Nothing. I will come back later. No. I will arrange a meeting at a more convenient hour.” John sighed as Mycroft stumbled his way through a flimsy excuse. Mourning his already flagging erection, John turned to head to the bedroom.

“Give us a few minutes to change,” John told Mycroft, tugging Sherlock behind him so he could be sure the detective wouldn’t hit his brother on principle alone. “You’re already here, anyway.”

The door closed and Sherlock turned to pin John with a pleading, incredulous stare. “Why can’t he come back later?”

“He wouldn’t have come in the first place, if it wasn’t important. We can at least hear him out.” John kicked off his ruined trousers and pulled on sleep pants. A heavy sigh and swish of cloth let him know Sherlock was at least following suit, if not happily. “We’ll help him quickly then pick up where we left off.”

Instantly, hands settled on his waist, turning John until Sherlock could catch him in a drugging kiss that had his head spinning and his knees buckling. “Promise?”

“God, yes.” John kissed him one last time, adjusted his pants, then moved into the living room to try and help the other Holmes with whatever problem he’d run into this time. 

 

Just like the first time they met, Mycroft Holmes stood with his omnipresent umbrella next to him, his face giving away nothing of his emotional state or thought process. It irritated the hell out of John. He’d been so close to finally having Sherlock in the most intimate way possible, and the one person who managed to spoil that plan now had the audacity to stand in their living room looking superior? Absolutely not.

“Save the posturing for your cronies. What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock stood behind John with his arms crossed over his chest, looking as petulant as John had ever seen him. It made John smile, calming his ire enough to at least be civilized to the man who arranged for the top oncologist in England, possibly the world, to be at John’s disposal. 

“Sherlock means, how can we help?” Squeezing Sherlock’s hand with a small smile playing over his lips, John moved to the sofa to take a seat. It was less comfortable than his chair, but he was feeling a little magnanimous with his gorgeous lover watching his every move like a panther watches a lone deer. Just the thought of it had a shiver working down his spine. 

Looking between his younger brother and the doctor who managed to make the man human, Mycroft felt...content? No, that wasn’t quite right. Proud? Maybe that was it. Despite how they’d been raised after the death of their mother, Sherlock rose above the ice. Oh, he had tried not to feel anything. Had even succeeded in fooling the world into thinking he felt nothing. All except one person. A soldier invalidated home after surviving a bullet in the chest managed to see what no one else could, what no one else tried to see. Sherlock’s miracle. 

Over three decades of watching foreign diplomats and their pet spies taught Mycroft Holmes how to read body language like a blind man reads Braille or a deaf man reads lips—something Mycroft could also do should the situation call for it. So, watching Sherlock subconsciously angle his body toward John, his eyes flicking to take in every nuance on the familiar, war-weathered features as if seeking approval or checking for discomfort, read differently for Mycroft than it would for a casual observer. The only people Sherlock watched that closely were enemies, suspects, victims, and John. The first three were dealt with quickly and efficiently before Sherlock moved on to the next, constantly seeking greater puzzles, harder riddles, more stimulation. John, however, managed to capture and hold Sherlock’s interest for over five years. Unheard of in their world. 

“I heard your treatment is working remarkably well,” Mycroft began. “Any ill side effects that have yet to be addressed?” 

John felt like a rare, unusual insect under a microscope. Pale blue eyes two shades darker than the younger Holmes pinned him in place with a narrow, assessing gaze. If John hadn’t been scrutinized by more people than he could ever hope to remember this past month, including the younger Holmes, he might have given in to the intense urge to squirm under the relentless stare. Fortunately, he managed to curb the instinctual response and just stared back with a small smile. This was Mycroft’s way of showing he cared. Uncomfortable and seemingly cold, it may be, but the man had no experience in this sort of situation so John not only let it slide, but felt familial warmth filter into his heart for Mycroft. 

“No. Dr. Mahoney is taking care of everything. If he can’t figure out the answer, I am sure he has more than enough sources to find one.”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed with a small nod. 

“John is progressing at an extraordinary rate. Even Mahoney seemed surprised, if not happily so.” Sherlock smiled at John from his spot by the coffee table, joy and love both sparking in the clear grey. 

“You could not have hoped for better news at this stage in your treatment. I hope you will keep me posted,” Mycroft said.

John smirked, head tilting a bit to the right. “I am sure you will know whether we tell you or not.” 

“Are you going to tell us why you are here, or would you prefer me to tell you?” Though the words seemed harsh, Sherlock’s tone held an edge of warmth that Mycroft only heard a handful of times before. Well, only a handful of times aimed at him. 

“Can you?” Mycroft leaned back in the chair, Sherlock’s favorite, he knew.

Cocking his head to one side and narrowing his eyes a bit, his brother narrowed his world down to Mycroft. “Shoes recently shined, new trousers, your favorite shirt, freshly shaven, all could be in preparation for a high level meeting. The manner of dress suggests you are trying to impress someone. The aftershave suggests that someone is a romantic interest. Sweat on your brow shows nerves, as does the white knuckle grip on the brolly. You came here for advice, therefore you are likely about to embark on another date with the Inspector and are nervous about the date, either because the choice of venue fell to you or because tonight you intend to move past snogging in doorways or shadowy skips. Possibly both.” 

John watched Mycroft instead of his lover, shock entering his eyes when Mycroft didn’t deny Sherlock’s analysis. “What? Really?” 

His surprise would have been insulting if it wasn’t so amusing in contrast to Sherlock’s look of slight nausea. “I would rather not discuss what you do with Lestrade, if it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock managed, though his nose still crinkled slightly in distaste.

“As would I,” Mycroft told him, twisting the handle of his umbrella. “You are correct in your analysis, brother, but I am only here to inquire about a potential location, nothing more.”

“You have been dating for what? A month? And you still don’t know where he might like to go?” John leaned forward so his forearms rested lightly on his knees.

“I know he enjoys football, beer, and surprises. He prefers to sleep on his left side and he showers at the end of the day, not the beginning. I know he prefers his coffee with a bit of milk or black, but will drink it black most of the time to avoid appearing ‘soft,’” Mycroft’s voice added the quotes around the word ‘soft’ as his fingers turned the handle faster in agitation. “I know he would have stayed in a loveless marriage if his wife asked him to, out of a sense of duty and responsibility. I know he works himself into the ground for very little in return, out of a sense of justice. I know he prefers dogs to cats and he is more than willing to try new experiences in an effort to please others. I do NOT know where I should take such a man on a date.” 

Sherlock perched on the arm of John’s chair while Mycroft spoke, arm settling along the back so his fingers could brush the skin along John’s neckline. John leaned into the touch, but kept his focus on Mycroft. 

“You really like him, don’t you?” John asked, though he knew the answer.

“This is only our second date, as it were.” Mycroft continued, as if he hadn’t heard John. When both John and Sherlock’s eyes widened incredulously, Mycroft shrugged. “We have scheduled dates, but something important always interferes. Since our first date, we have seen each other in passing…”

“He means he has stalked him with CCTV cameras and given him lifts home or away from crime scenes,” Sherlock murmured next to John’s ear.

“However, we have not officially been on another date yet.” Mycroft’s eyes went hazy as he fell into the memory of their first date. The single most wonderful night of Mycroft’s adult life, tying closely with his successful apprehension of several double agents working in MI-6, at the age of twenty. “He took me to the opera,” he murmured. “He prefers football and beer, but he took me to the opera. On a low salary, he paid for private box seating. He asked Anthea for ideas.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” John mused. “He likes you a great deal and wanted to see you happy and relaxed, or as relaxed as you are likely to get anyway.” 

“I would like to return the favor,” Mycroft admitted, pinning John and Sherlock with a look that dared them to make fun of him for such weakness. “Anderson and Donovan are…”

“Useless,” Sherlock offered with a small smirk.

“Gossips,” John supplied.

“Not ideal,” Mycroft allowed, lip quirking in return. He would never be more grateful to John than he was for the slip of the unemotional mask his brother usually wore. “John, you know him well. What would you suggest?” Asking for help did not come easily or naturally to Mycroft, but for Gregory he was willing to try. 

“Jazz,” John stated simply.

“A concert?” Sherlock asked, leaning slightly to catch John’s eyes.

“No. A club that offers dining, a bit on the fancy side, with live jazz and blues playing on stage a few feet away.” John smiled at his lover, hand moving to catch Sherlock’s again. 

“Dimly lit. Romantic. Laid back enough for Greg, but upscale enough for Mycroft.”

Leaning down, Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on John’s upturned mouth. The easy affection made Mycroft smile a little. They really did complement one another. “Clever, Dr. Watson. Very clever.”

“Is there such a place?” Mycroft asked, fighting the urge to leave the two alone to stare wistfully into one another’s eyes. He came here for ideas, and he intended to stay until he had a location in mind and a course of action laid out. 

“The Hideaway.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, though they looked a bit hazy as he ran through streets and shops in his mind. “The new club on Streatham High Road?” 

“A club?” Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. He hated going to clubs or pubs. They were loud and filthy, full of too many people trying to get sotted or find a quick shag for the night, neither of which appealed to Mycroft in the slightest. If Greg liked it, though…

“Before you panic,” John said, noting the mixed look of horror and disdain in Mycroft’s eyes—something that would have been impossible a month earlier—“there are seats available in the alcove overlooking the stage. Quiet, private, with an excellent view of the band.”

A box seat for a club? Interesting. Mycroft actually enjoyed jazz, despite the seemingly random notes which formed the melodies. The complexity inherent in navigating a nearly endless choice of notes and scales to form a coherent, haunting piece appealed to Mycroft on both an intellectual and emotional level. Either cathartic or soothing, the music often helped Mycroft regain his professional façade at the end of difficult days. He looked between John and Sherlock again, noting the smiles and flirting and shifted in the chair just a bit. 

“Quiet, dark, and semi-private?” Mycroft asked, interrupting the heated exchange of looks between his brother and the doctor. One nod gave Mycroft the answer he needed as well as a valid excuse to duck out of the flat which felt a bit overcrowded with him there. Any other time, Mycroft might have stayed longer just to see his brother grow impatient and frustrated, but they both deserved the chance to be together while they felt healthy enough to do so, and Mycroft had planning to accomplish before he picked Greg up later that night. “Thank you for your time. Good evening.”

Keeping his goodbye short and simple, Mycroft stood from the chair and exited the flat, already pulling his phone from a pocket to call Anthea. “I need a table reserved on the balcony of the Hideaway for tonight.” He ducked inside the vehicle and felt a moment’s gratitude toward John for the idea, Sherlock for his unusual patience, and Anthea for her typical efficiency.

 

Back in the flat, John blinked at the closed door. That had been easy enough, he thought before turning to face his lover. Sherlock leaned down and paused a bare inch from John’s mouth to whisper, “Finally,” against the sensitive skin, then closed the distance with a soft press of lips. When they came back to the flat, John felt the need as a keen edge so sharp it pushed him to act quickly, desperate to feel Sherlock against him, around him. This time the desire built in slow waves that ebbed and returned higher than before.  


Their touches skimmed over heated skin in glancing strokes barely felt. Mouths sipped and drank from one another until those small touches weren’t enough for either man, then they became more intense. Those teasing, fleeting touches shifted to long, firm strokes and their kisses deepened from slow and warm, to hard and scalding. Low moans spilled from Sherlock’s mouth into John’s as his hands lifted to brush over the sides of John’s skull where his hair already began to thin out courtesy of the chemo. Sherlock lifted off the arm of the chair to settle over John, straddling his hips. When Sherlock leaned down to continue the kisses, John settled his hand on Sherlock’s chest to stop him. Confusion and desire warred in bright mercury, but John just smiled gently.

“No,” he whispered, closing the distance to kiss Sherlock gently. “The bedroom. We should be in our bed for this.” 

Sherlock’s face cleared when understanding filtered into his gaze and he rose off of John and took his hand to lead him to the bedroom. Sherlock’s pulse raced just a bit faster with each step they took to their bedroom. John stripping him of each piece of clothing along the way didn’t help matters any either. This was it. John would finally take Sherlock, fill him. Calloused fingers traced over the sharp lines of Sherlock’s ribs, spine, hipbones, and pelvis as though trying to imprint the details in his mind to refer back to later. It was a move Sherlock employed on a regular basis and the knowledge that John picked up that detail filled him like fine wine, making him warm and a bit dizzy.

Wanting to do more than just stand there and let John pull away his clothing, Sherlock lifted his hands and paused just before touching him, looking into his heated gaze as though asking permission. In a way, that is exactly what Sherlock asked. May I? 

For weeks, John let the doctors dictate his life. Everything he ate, drank, tried, every move John made came as a result of advice from specialists and his friends, with the exception of the times they were in a case. Even then, John’s actions altered depending on the needs of his ailing body. For this, in this one thing, John needed to be in charge and Sherlock did not intend to take that from him. 

John nodded his head, lifting Sherlock’s hands to his shirt before raising his own arms above his head so Sherlock could remove the fabric. Cotton pooled on the floor at the foot of their bed as each piece of clothing came off, and Sherlock hummed at the sight of all that bare skin. His fingers dipped into shadowed spaces on John’s body and felt along his skin for all the sensitive places. John allowed it for a while, but the need to do more, to feel more, rose rapidly until John couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He stepped into Sherlock’s space and pulled him into a deep kiss, then nudged him back towards the bed. Sherlock lowered to the soft sheets and scooted backwards until his head rested on the pillow and all those long, graceful lines stretched across the surface. “God, you’re beautiful,” John murmured. 

The need to just look had John standing at the foot of the bed a bit too long for Sherlock’s liking because he squirmed under the scrutiny. “John, please.”

Sherlock never begged or asked for anything other than for John to live, so the desire on his face with that simple word held more impact than on anyone else John knew. He crawled onto the bed and settled between Sherlock’s legs, kissing him again and shivering at the feel of skin on skin. “Patience, Sherlock.”

“I’m not known for that, and I think I’ve been more than patient tonight. I let you talk to Mycroft and didn’t interrupt…much.” Sherlock nearly pouted and the look made John chuckle.

“Yes, you were unusually patient considering it wasn’t for a case.” While he spoke John worked his way down Sherlock’s body with gentle kisses and curious licks. Sherlock tasted slightly salty and clean, and John found himself addicted already. When he reached Sherlock’s erection, he paused and stared a bit. He’d already seen the appendage before, having showered with Sherlock and stroked him to climax, but that didn’t stop the awe from filling him at the sight of Sherlock, flushed and hard, already leaking against his abdomen. With a small moan, John leaned down to flick his tongue over the head to taste.

Sherlock gasped and shivered beneath him, that one flick of John’s tongue sending a spark of pleasure up his spine. “Again,” he asked, fingers tunneling into thinning blonde hair. “John.”

Biting his lip and pressing his hips down into the bed to alleviate some of the pressure in his own erection, John nodded and took the head of Sherlock into his mouth. John knew what he liked done to him, but knowing and doing seemed incredibly different with the head of Sherlock’s cock sitting on his tongue. The moan Sherlock let out above him gave John the confidence to flick his tongue against the glans, dipping briefly into the slit before flattening over the top again. Those narrow hips rose off the bed a bit and Sherlock whimpered. Actually whimpered. Suddenly, a cool tube of plastic pressed to his cheek and John pulled back with a messy pop to see what Sherlock tried to hand him, his eyes widening at the sight of the lube. Oh. 

John took the little tube and set it aside for a moment, then went back to tasting Sherlock the way he wanted to for the past several weeks, months if he was honest with himself. “I want to taste you for a bit, love. We’ll get there, I promise.” 

Dipping back down, John took the head back into his mouth and wrapped one hand around the base to stroke the way some of the women had stroked him. Sherlock gasped and arched a bit, making pride fill John almost as fast as desire built. Every noise Sherlock made caused an answering pulse of blood to fill John’s cock until his erection was almost painful. He rolled Sherlock’s testicles gently in his hand and sucked lightly at the firm flesh in his mouth. Focusing on keeping Sherlock shifting and gasping in pleasure, John popped the cap on the lube and squeezed a bit onto his fingers. After warming it for a moment or two, John backed off until just the head of Sherlock’s erection sat in his mouth and sucked as he eased a finger into Sherlock. His lover moaned and arched into the intrusion, so John slowly worked the digit in to the base, then began thrusting it slowly in and out.

“John, come on. More. Please,” Sherlock managed after several moments of just those movements. John added a second finger and worked Sherlock slowly open, scissoring his fingers gently while Sherlock went from shifting restlessly to pressing down into John’s hand. Moaning at the erotic actions, John sucked Sherlock down as far as he could and pressed in a third finger. Above him, Sherlock shouted and threw his head back against the pillows, back arching beautifully and causing John’s cock to pulse sharply. “Now. John, I won’t. Christ, I won’t last if you keep going.” 

John pulled off of Sherlock’s erection and removed his fingers from the tight passage. He rolled a condom on and slicked himself with the lubricant, then crawled over Sherlock’s flushed form to settle between his legs. “Are you sure?” he panted, staring down at the debauched form of his best mate and lover.

“Yes!” Sherlock almost shouted, exasperation as clear as need in eyes blown wide with lust. John leaned down to take his mouth, thrusting his tongue into the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth while his body sank slowly into the heat of Sherlock’s body. Letting out a long, involuntary moan, John stilled his hips, sweat beading on his forehead while he waited for Sherlock to adjust to the intrusion. It felt…complete. Sherlock’s body fit so well around John’s, it brought credence to the idea they belonged together.

With John pressed close to him, sharing the same oxygen, body heat, and even the same body, to an extent, Sherlock should feel overwhelmed. Controlled. Taken over. There wasn't a single place on his body that John hadn't laid claim to, or made note of. Everything he'd been through from the time he was a child to now, this moment, showed on his skin in the form of scars, bruises, or wrinkles. Anomalies. They held a special place in Sherlock's heart because anomalies were rare. Red diamonds, intelligent criminals, genuine people. John. 

Against every reason he had to hate Sherlock, and despite the people who would tell him he was a fool for staying with a known sociopath, John loved him. Not the half-hearted shadow of emotion most people basked in, but the full, deep, inexplicably heart-rending emotion so few ever found. 

Pulling back to stare down at Sherlock, John began the steady push-pull inside of him and light filled every single room in Sherlock’s mind palace, chasing away shadows and any lingering cobwebs. With each gentle thrust his heart begged him to do his best to become someone worthy of John's affection and, for once, his mind agreed. Love might not be about deserving something so rich and all-abiding, but Sherlock would strive nonetheless. 

The intrusion and initial pain of the stretch began to fade and John helped it along by reaching a hand between their bodies to circle Sherlock’s flagging erection and bring it back to fullness in less than 12 seconds. Sherlock gasped into John's mouth even as he arched into his hand. Sherlock's muscles tightened around John as he pulled back from the kiss, once again reduced to begging for his lover to give him more. "Please, John. Ohhh...Christ. Move--ah--please."

John stared down at Sherlock’s face, watching the way Sherlock watched him all the time. He noted the flush across sharp cheekbones and the blown pupils, the stutter in Sherlock’s hips as his climax crept closer, and the part of the Cupid’s bow to let moans and cries of pleasure escape. The most amazing part of it all was that John caused every single one of those reactions. His hips snapped up against Sherlock as they both raced closer to the edge of that steep drop into oblivion. “Sherlock. Sherlock,” John repeated the name like a prayer. “Cum with me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered on a gasp, his hands gripping John’s lower back as his legs circled John’s hips to pull him in deeper, send them both higher. “Oh, God, John. Close. I’m so close.” 

Pace becoming frantic, John thrust into Sherlock over and over, his hips stuttering as he approached climax. “Now, Sherlock. Cum now.” They’d both waited so long it felt like they’d been building to this point for years.

When Sherlock’s eyes flew open, staring at nothing and everything as his back bowed and he cried out John’s name, spilling hot white semen over John’s hand and their torsos, John felt his control snap. He pounded into Sherlock for another few moments and followed after his lover with a broken shout of Sherlock’s name. 

Long moments passed as they both came down from the incredible high and John’s mind cleared enough for him to realize he was sprawled over top of Sherlock. He went to move, but Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, locking John in place. “Not yet,” Sherlock told him, voice rough from use. 

John settled back against Sherlock kissing the skin under his jaw and nuzzling against his throat. Sherlock bit back tears while his body settled and the endorphins pinged around in his brain, sparking along his nerve endings and making him keenly aware of every place John’s skin touched his own. This felt incredible. Watching pornography hadn’t prepared him at all for how it would feel to connect with John on every possible level and the fear that all this would end before they were ready, grew stronger than ever. Would they ever be ready? Sherlock could watch John for centuries and never grow tired of his many varied expressions and adorable quirks. The way his eyes could be condescending and affectionate at the same time. The way he cared for everyone regardless of whether they deserved the sentiment or not. Everything about John called to Sherlock, made him curious and needy in the best of ways. He wanted to make John smile, laugh, cry out in pleasure, shiver with warmth, live the rest of their lives feeling so loved he never felt as though he missed out on something. 

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured, holding John to him.

John sighed and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s throat. “I know. I love you, too.” Wanting to lighten the heavy mood he could feel seeping into Sherlock, John lifted enough to stare down at him. “But if I don’t move soon, we’ll begin to stick to one another, and I can almost guarantee you won’t like that. You’ll like it even less when we peel apart.”

Sherlock laughed and leaned up to kiss John. “Is that your way of telling me that I made a mess and you no longer wish to lie in it?” 

John grinned, “Yes.” Gently, he pulled out of Sherlock’s body, both of them hissing at the pull of Sherlock’s abused entrance along John’s cock. He rose to discard the condom and grabbed a flannel to wipe them both off. “We can shower tomorrow. Right now I just want to hold you for a bit.”

With that, Sherlock turned onto his side and pulled John close, their foreheads resting together. “I like the sound of that,” he whispered, eyes growing heavy. “Is lethargy a common result of intercourse?”

Laughing, John swatted Sherlock’s arse gently. “Analyze tomorrow. Better yet,” his expression turned wicked, “experiment and find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait everyone. My laptop died and I finally saved up enough to get a new one. In the next chapter there will be definite Mystrade and the morning after for Johnlock. Thank you so much for all the encouragement and for sticking with this story. I can't tell you how much it means to me.


	21. A Steady Glow and a Flash Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg go on their second date where they learn more about one another and their relationship takes another step forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken artistic liberty with this chapter. The Hideaway is a real jazz club in London, but I tweaked the way it looks inside. As far as I know, they do not have an upstairs. Also, this chapter involves a graphic sex scene between two consenting, male adults. If this is not something you wish to read, then feel free to skip this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

Nerves, while useful upon occasion, often caused more problems for Mycroft than they resolved. While some may benefit from the surge of adrenaline pumping through the system due to an excessive amount of worry or fear, Mycroft found the rush stifled by the sheer volume of choices to be made. Anthea took care of the reservations and Mycroft already ensured his driver would take them to and from the club…but what did one wear to a club? Even a jazz club? Especially a jazz club.

The easy banter and casual touches between his brother and John Watson faded into the background as Mycroft considered he might, for the first time in over three decades, fail. Gregory would never outright laugh at him for making an effort and stepping outside of his normal comfort zone, but Mycroft would read it all over that weathered, handsome face. One of the best things about Detective Lestrade revolved around the open expression he wore with everyone except criminals and co-workers. The people around Mycroft sought to cajole, beg, or steal from him in an effort to accomplish their ends. Sometimes they played the innocence card, tried to get under the layer of steel Mycroft used as a deterrent for people like them. It never worked. Every actor had a tell and Mycroft knew them all. Even Greg had tells. Not one of them appeared when he looked at Mycroft. 

Turning his attention back to the dilemma in from of him, Mycroft tried to decide which outfit would be most appropriate for their date. In this, he refused to ask Anthea or his brother for assistance. Disguises could be just as important as the information on the diplomat, client, or spy. Classic elegance, understated power, keen intellect. All could be translated with the correct clothes. A solid colored shirt said understated, but add a cravat and cufflinks and the shirt becomes understated elegance. Add a pair of rectangular glasses and the mark automatically assumed intelligence. Greg certainly was not a mark, but, in this case, could Mycroft treat him as one? 

Perhaps that seemed a bit cold. Shifting his weight from his left foot to his right, Mycroft stared at the color coordinated contents of his closet and sighed heavily. Giving in to the obvious need for further assistance, and dropping his pride at his feet, Mycroft lifted his phone and stared blankly at the screen. Greg messaged him over an hour prior asking what outfit might be appropriate for their date since Mycroft chose the locale. Damn! Now he needed to think for two people? How did the general population do this on a consistent basis?

Picturing Gregory in his mind, Mycroft thought about what he might like to see the man wearing. A horribly embarrassing image of a very nude, very enticing Inspector Lestrade lit up his mind and his face at the same time. Glancing around himself surreptitiously, Mycroft made sure no one else saw the complete disintegration of his usual mask. He turned his attention back to the phone and tried to picture a CLOTHED version of his date. At ease, the man would look as good in a tuxedo as he would in one of John’s frumpy jumpers. Hmmm. Cream and beige would highlight the tan present on the man, but a deep purple would be a pleasant contrast to his silvery hair and deep brown eyes. 

He decided quickly on an outfit which might compliment such a color and sent the message to his date for the evening.

‘A dark purple or a deep burgundy button down with dark trousers would suit fine. Of course, anything else you might choose would be just as appropriate, I am sure. –MH’

Two minutes later he received a follow up message from the man who occupied most of Mycroft’s thoughts these days. 

‘Did you just send me a specific color scheme? –GL’

Was that wrong? Should he have merely supplied the type of dress appropriate instead of the color? What if Greg did not own a shirt in those colors? 

‘Is that inappropriate? I did mention something similar would substitute fine. –MH’ Which he followed immediately with, ‘Do you not own a shirt in one of those colors? –MH’

He stared at his phone for several long moments, willing it to go off with a message from Greg instructing Mycroft on etiquette in this instance. If Greg had been a mark, the decisions would have been ironed out the night before and it would not be Mycroft’s intention to romance so much as to endear. If the mark loved Mycroft things devolved quickly. If the mark simply enjoyed Mycroft, the relationship proved profitable for years. He wanted more than enjoyment from Gregory. He wanted rapture. 

His phone beeped and Mycroft lifted it with bated breath.

‘Yes, as it happens, I do. Christmas gifts come in handy after all. –GL’

Well, that was no help at all. If Mycroft dressed to match the purple and Greg wore the burgundy they might clash. Should he wear a neutral color again or something bolder? 

Mycroft willed his phone to offer more information, but it remained stoically silent. Pursing his lips, Mycroft typed out, ‘So, which color will you be wearing? –MH’

‘You’ll have to wait and see. –GL’ 

Mycroft stared incredulously at his phone. Glancing up, as if in search of a witness to the message, Mycroft quickly glanced back down and tried to stymie his frustration. Surely there was a compromise between colorful and neutral. Staring at his closet, his eyes alighted on the series of metallic colored shirts, trousers, and ties for his more…ostentatious marks. Those who preferred their escorts to be seen and admired. He reached in and pulled out a pale gold button-down with a subtle shine and no sparkle to it. He always looked good in that shirt. It brought out the red in his hair without taking away from the blue of his eyes. 

Nodding his head in confirmation, Mycroft pulled the shirt out and grabbed his best fitting pair of trousers and a black blazer sans tie. He left his curls looser than he wore them when at the office and added some of his favorite cologne. It smelled like amber and a bit of spice, just enough to warm without offending the olfactory senses. Staring at his reflection, Mycroft decided to leave the blazer open and hoped he looked attractive, but not as though he tried to be attractive. He wanted the same effortless appearance his date carried on an average day. Mycroft grabbed his wallet and coat on the way out, then stepped into the waiting car. 

According to the latest traffic reports he should arrive precisely five minutes early to Gregory’s house and he would wait in the car for those five minutes before going to knock on the door. Unless Greg was ready early and already waiting for him, in which case Mycroft would climb from the car and gesture Greg inside. Or would that seem imperious? 

It turned out, Greg preferred to be early as Mycroft suspected, therefore the car pulled up to the curb just as Greg stepped out of his building, and Mycroft’s heart gave one hard knock against his ribs. Greg wore the deep amethyst and it suited him very well. His hair looked artfully tousled and he was freshly shaven, drawing Mycroft’s eyes to his mouth and the strong throat circled by the collar of his button down. Mycroft licked his lips and stepped from the car. A black vest hung open in the same manner as Mycroft’s blazer and drew attention to Greg’s well-defined biceps and broad chest, which expanded into equally broad shoulders and tapered to a trim waist and hips encased in black denim. He had to swallow twice before he could speak.

“I see you chose purple. It looks…” Good didn’t seem adequate enough but anything else might seem like pandering. “Perfect,” Mycroft settled on. He saw Greg’s quick, boyish grin and tried not to roll his eyes at his own awkward sentiment.

“Thanks,” Greg told him as he wandered down the walk to where Mycroft stood. His eyes traced over Mycroft’s form and Mycroft felt that look down to his bones, flushing with warmth and joy when he caught the banked desire in the gentle brown. “You look really good, too. Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or would you like me to guess?”

Mycroft smiled and gestured for Greg to slide into the car. “You will see soon enough. I didn’t bring a blindfold.” Surprise and a hint of something else flashed in Greg’s eyes. So, he enjoyed blindfolds. Interesting. “After you.”

“Thank you,” Greg murmured absently, sliding into the familiar car and greeting their driver again. The car glided smoothly away from the curb and Greg looked out the windows, trying to figure out the destination based on the street and landmarks nearby. With as often as he traversed the city while chasing down criminals, he should be able to deduce the location once they rounded the corner. Sure enough, Greg whipped around to pin Mycroft with a wide-eyed stare. 

“You got us in to Hideaway? How? They’re extremely exclusive and booked solid for years!” It took him a couple seconds to filter through what he said and roll his eyes. “Wait. Forgot I’m dating the Government for a moment there.”

That statement shouldn’t have hurt, being fact, but for whatever reason it hit Mycroft hard. He knew that Greg saw more in him than his profession or the man wouldn’t have forgotten Mycroft’s profession. It should really be a compliment that Greg didn’t remember his job. 

“Oi,” Greg reached out and cupped Mycroft’s cheek, startling him back into the present. “You got quiet there. Did I say something wrong?”

Gregory looked genuinely confused and worried. It was the worried that galvanized Mycroft into action. Lifting his own hand, he caught Greg’s wrist and drew his hand over so he could kiss the center of Greg’s palm. 

“No. You didn’t say anything wrong. I was merely surprised you found it possible to forget my profession, though I would remind you I am not the Government, merely a low ranking official…” he trailed off at Greg’s arch look.

“If you are a low ranking official, then a high ranking official must run half the world,” Greg quipped just as the car pulled up to the curb. Bright lights blared at the car, but the tinted windows offered some cover from the glare. When Mycroft glanced back at Greg he saw the light flush across his cheeks and knew he must have done or said something right to put that look on the DI’s face. “You really got us in here didn’t you?” he asked, completely awed.

“Yes, Gregory. Ready?” At Greg’s enthusiastic nod, Mycroft slid out of the car and offered his hand to pull Greg up beside him. The front of the club boasted a bright marquee in orange and white with a keyhole in the center. They made it into the building after ducking around the patrons waiting to get inside the popular night spot, and Mycroft strode straight to the podium where a manger already waited with the head waitress to lead them to their table. 

Greg glanced around him, trying to take in everything at once. The fact that Mycroft even thought of this place, let alone booked them a table, when Greg knew how much he disliked clubs and pubs made Greg grin. It had been a good long while since anyone even thought about what he might enjoy. Granted, Greg buried his head in his work as often as Mycroft probably did, but this meant the sleek man cared about Greg’s likes and dislikes and that thought made warmth curl in his stomach. 

He looked at the contemporary design, noting the impressive bar and the glass and metal tables. Everything appeared slick and expensive in a fashionable way that had Greg thanking Mycroft for the clothing recommendation, even though it made him laugh initially. Trying to determine where they would be sitting, Greg took in the tables a couple feet from the foot of the cozy stage and the ones closest to the bar. No way, Mycroft would ask for a table close to the bar. Too much noise and traffic for a date. The same could be said of the tables near the stage. He caught sight of some of the tables cleverly hidden in small alcoves and smiled. It had to be one of those.

Mycroft turned to see Greg taking in the atmosphere as he might observe a crime scene, picking apart details often missed by the average person. The DI must be trying to figure out where the waitress would place them. Mycroft slid his hand to the small of Greg’s back and turned him in the direction the waitress headed, which led up a narrow staircase to a small sitting area on the balcony. Only one table sat in a space where five could easily fit and it was close enough to the railing for them to see the band, but not so close they might be seen by people on the ground floor. He caught sight of Greg’s face and smirked. The man appeared shell shocked.

“This is…” Greg trailed off as he took in the tea lights in the center of the table built for two. Romantic. Brilliant. Considerate. Incredible. All those words fit, but Greg didn’t think Mycroft would appreciate any of them. Turning to face Mycroft, Greg smiled, “Perfect,” he said, echoing Mycroft’s earlier sentiment. 

After they were seated the waitress handed them a couple menus, Mycroft ordered a bottle of Merlot, then the waitress poured their water and took her leave as quietly as she’d entered. Greg leaned forward a bit so he could take in the floor and the crowd of busy people, then sat back and disappeared into the world of Mycroft’s creation. 

“You really went all out,” he said, sipping his water. “I’m flattered.”

Flushing, Mycroft grudgingly admitted, “I asked John what you might enjoy.”

Greg grinned even wider. “You did? How did Sherlock take that? When they left the crime scene they seemed…er…eager.”

Mycroft cringed. “Yes. I have rather bad timing considering I keep them under surveillance.” 

“I would have loved to be there,” Greg chuckled. “You didn’t catch them in the middle, did you?”

“Thank God, no. They were – disrobing against a wall when I entered.”

Greg laughed harder. 

“To be fair, Mrs. Hudson told me to go on up,” Mycroft chuckled. Gregory laughing had to be one of his favorite sounds.

“She’s always been a bit of a trouble maker.”

“So, you do like this place?” Mycroft asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Greg glanced over his shoulder to make sure the waitress had yet to resurface, pushed back his chair to stand, and stepped around the table to catch Mycroft’s chin in one hand, tilt his face up, and press a kiss to his mouth, gently licking over his bottom lip. “I do,” he murmured, staring down into heated blue. 

Mycroft smiled and watched Greg move back around the table to have a seat on the other side. Mentally thanking his brother’s lover, Mycroft followed Greg’s lead and turned his attention back to the menu so he could place an order when the waitress came back again. Speak of the wait staff, or think of them, and one usually appears. The young woman stopped by their table and poured their wine, then took out a tablet and tapped in their orders. Once she left again, Mycroft worried the conversation would taper off into a long awkward silence, but once again Greg surprised him.

“So, what can you tell me about your work day? Was it good, at least?” Greg saw the flash of panic in Mycroft’s eyes when the waitress turned to leave and hoped it meant Mycroft worried about how they would occupy themselves until dinner or the first band, who took the stage just as Greg asked his questions. The questions worked, much to Greg’s relief. 

Mycroft chuckled and Greg relaxed further into his chair.

“It was eventful,” Mycroft allowed with a smile. His eyes danced as he watched Greg take his first sip of the wine and hum appreciatively. 

“Well, there’s that. I don’t have as many restrictions. Want to hear about my day?” Greg asked.

“Absolutely,” Mycroft settled into his chair and let the smooth, brassy sound of two saxophones and a trombone swirl in the background. Soon enough, the band began to play and the low crooning of a woman’s voice filled the space. He moved his chair a little further around the table and leaned in to listen to Greg’s day. 

So many emotions showed on Greg’s face. Transparent and unafraid to be, the inspector went from happy to frustrated, jumped to amused and chagrined, then circled back around to content all in the span of ten minutes. Just as he wrapped up the story of his day, with a little input from Mycroft when appropriate, the waitress delivered their entrees and refilled their wine. 

Conversation flowed as easily as the notes wailing from the saxophone and Mycroft felt the day drop away from him. Considering his days often included whinging socialites, predictable assassination attempts, or even the occasional abduction or interrogation, Greg’s ability to make it all disappear from Mycroft’s mind meant the man held considerable sway over Mycroft. It worried him a bit. Oh, Greg would never use it against him, but his enemies and co-workers would not hesitate.

“—working?” Greg asked. His eyes glowed with amusement when Mycroft simply blinked at him in confusion. Reaching across the table, he wiped his thumb over the corner of 

Mycroft’s mouth to collect a bit of sauce, then pulled his hand back to lick it off with a hum. “Hm. It’s good.” 

Heat flared in the pit of his stomach as Mycroft unconsciously licked his lips. That gesture seemed more erotic than he remembered. Flushing a light pink, hopefully hidden by the lights, Mycroft smiled gently. “I apologize for being rude. I did not intend to tune you out.”

With a shrug and a smile, Greg settled back in his chair. “It happens. Care to let me in on the secret?” At Mycroft’s blank look, Greg chuckled. “What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Mycroft blurted, eyes widening at the unintentional candor. “You are able to distract me to an impressive degree, and I am unused to the effects. Please, what is it you wished to know?”

“First off, you’ll get used to the distraction, and when I am less of a mystery or puzzle to you, you’ll go back to being able to filter me out like the others.”

“Unlikely. You are not like any other person I have met, and I have met a great many.” 

Greg’s heart fluttered and his smile softened. “Thanks. I asked if John’s treatment is going well. The only time I see them is at crime scenes, and while he seems a lot better, I’d rather know for sure.”

Mycroft smiled and sipped his wine while the waitress reappeared to clear away their plates. “Would either of you like dessert or coffee?”

Wincing a bit at the mention of sweets, Mycroft waited for Greg’s answer. 

“Yeah. The carrot cake and,” he looked at Mycroft for a moment. “Two forks and two coffees, please.”

“I’ll be back in a bit.” She smiled and bustled away, but Greg’s eyes stayed fixed on Mycroft. He hated that small wince of self-consciousness. Wanting nothing more than to squash it, Greg began to form a plan in his mind. He would be taking Mycroft to bed that night, and for at least a few hours, the government official would not need to worry that his lover might find him unattractive. Greg would prove how sexy he found the man through action reinforced with words.

“I am not much for sweets,” Mycroft tried. Perhaps he could persuade Greg to let him just sip the coffee.

“That’s why I ordered the carrot cake. It’s not as sweet. You’ll love it.”

No way out, then. “I trust your judgment.”

Bollocks, Greg thought. Mycroft thought Greg wanted to poke fun at him for wanting to indulge in dessert every now and again. “Good,” he nodded with satisfaction. At least Mycroft would eat some of it.

“John is doing well,” Mycroft began as he finished the last of his wine. “His doctor is confident the treatment is working far better than expected. At this rate, his cancer may go into full remission.”

Greg leaned forward in his chair. “He could be cancer free again?”

“If all goes well,” Mycroft hedged, unwilling to get Greg’s hopes up. “There are still things which may go wrong, Greg. Try not to pin all your hopes on this one moment. I have every confidence John will eventually become well again, but I do not want you or Sherlock to believe this miracle treatment will have him better in a matter of months.” He paused, unsure how much he should say. “John is hiding something. I am not sure what it is, but if it is bad enough to warrant caution on his part, it does seem likely it could lead to medical complications.”

“Christ,” Greg rubbed at his forehead and downed the rest of his wine. “I thought we were past hiding facts from one another.”

“WE are,” Mycroft placed heavy emphasis on the word ‘we.’

“No. I meant the four of us. We as a group,” he amended, hand sliding over Mycroft’s in an automatic gesture of affection and apology. 

“They love one another. In my experience love and pain often go hand in hand.” 

“I guess, but not over things like this. If whatever he is hiding causes harm, Sherlock might never forgive him. And didn’t he just spend an entire month angry at Sherlock for trying to protect him?” Greg sighed and kissed Mycroft’s hand. The waitress set the cake down followed by two cups of coffee. Slipping silently away, Greg looked up at Mycroft to see him working out the situation in his mind before speaking aloud.

“John was angry that Sherlock was trying to protect him physically, not emotionally. No one wants to hurt a loved one, especially not if they can help it. In this instance, John probably doesn’t wish to worry Sherlock and revert back to that month of handling him with kid-gloves.” Taking a sip of coffee, Mycroft glanced up to find Greg watching him steadily.

“I would rather know. Painful or not.” Steady brown held pale blue until Greg felt sure Mycroft understood he wasn’t just talking about John and Sherlock. “If John doesn’t mention it and there was something we could have done to help him, we will all feel stupid for not asking him about it.”

“Point.” Setting his cup down again, Mycroft sat back in his chair. He wanted to reach out and take Greg’s hand, but he didn’t know if Greg would accept the gesture. “We’ll just ask him about it when Sherlock is not present. If the situation is bad enough to cause concern, then we will inform Sherlock. If it is nothing more than worry, we should let John decide when, or if, he wants to tell Sherlock.” It seemed like a fitting compromise to him.

Greg caught his hand and squeezed it gently. “Thanks. Sorry for ranting.” He offered a lopsided smile and Mycroft smiled back. The cake sat innocently between them and Greg scraped off a corner, holding the fork up for Mycroft. “I heard it’s the best carrot cake in London.”

One eyebrow arched wryly and Mycroft tried not to look as skeptical as he felt. He leaned forward and reluctantly closed his mouth around the bite of cake, pulling back with a carefully controlled expression which cost him dearly. Cool cream cheese frosting just the right side of sweet mixed with decadent cardamom and nutmeg on Mycroft’s tongue. It had been weeks since he last gave in to the urge to eat sweets. 

The smile on Greg’s face told Mycroft he had not been nearly as subtle as he believed. The cake almost made the wry grin and knowing eyes worth it, if not for the shame of giving in when he knew it would only add to the weight problem plaguing his midsection. 

“It is very good,” he qualified, watching a sliver of cake disappear past deceptively thick lips. The soft hum of sound Greg made as he chewed the morsel was more sinful than the calorie packed frosting topping the pastry, and it gave Mycroft more ideas than the latter. Cake may have been one of his guilty pleasures, but something told him it would be replaced with something much healthier if Gregory Lestrade chose to stay with him for any length of time. 

“Good,” Greg offered another smile with the next bite of cake. The smile broadened into a charming grin when Mycroft accepted the bite of cake without protest, still half dazed by the arousing little sound Gregory made. So it continued until the cake disappeared and the coffee grew tepid. 

Finally, Greg sat back in his chair and smiled over at Mycroft. “So, what now?”

“I could take you home.” Mycroft schooled his features and the urge to stumble. “Your home, of course. Or we could go for a walk.” 

The smile on Greg’s face told him that Mycroft’s potential double meaning had not gone unnoticed by the detective. Despite Sherlock’s constant diatribes on the lack of intellect among the police force, Gregory proved he was more than capable of solving many cases on his own. He just couldn’t make the same level of observations as Sherlock or Mycroft. Few could.

“I have work tomorrow, so home sounds good.” Greg stood and Mycroft ensured the bill had been paid, leaving a healthy tip for the waitress who remained scarce without being absent, a very valuable skill to Mycroft’s way of thinking, then led the way out into the chilly night air of London. Just as they reached the curb, his driver pulled to the curb and Mycroft opened the door for Gregory to climb in first.

“Any interesting cases?” Though he kept surveillance on all of Sherlock’s acquaintances, he had not pried into Gregory’s caseload. Even Mycroft knew when invasion of privacy went from a necessary evil to inappropriate. The abuse of power would be unforgivable to someone who prized his privacy the way a Detective Inspector would. Gregory appeared both surprised and pleased by the question, obviously filling in the blanks.

“Nothing Sherlock-level interesting, but there is a case I’m working on that deals with the strangulation of a twenty-seven year old physicist…” The conversation spun off into the probability of potential suspects committing the crime and the potential for it being anything other than a homicide. They became so embroiled in the conversation, trading ideas and asking questions back and forth, that neither noticed the car had stopped for several long minutes. 

Mycroft sat back, stifling a disappointed sigh. “Well, I…”

“Would you like to come up for a night cap?” Greg asked, completely, wonderfully interrupting Mycroft. He studied Greg’s face for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“Yes, I would enjoy that.” Mycroft slid out of the car behind Gregory and told his driver he could have the rest of the night off. If he needed a car, there were any number of drivers on call. Gregory waited for him at the entrance to his building and Mycroft followed him up the stairs to a shoebox of a flat. On a DI’s salary, the space he managed to find in central London actually seemed more than impressive. He must have found the flat and talked the landlord down on the rent. “Spacious.”

Greg just laughed. “No, it is not. It’s tiny and barely appropriate to live in, but I’m not here much and it serves its purpose.” He turned to face Mycroft and the heat in his eyes froze Mycroft where he stood, two feet inside the door. Mycroft swallowed hard as Greg stalked across the small space, stepping right into his personal space and further until Mycroft had no choice but to back up into the door. “Did you really want a night cap?”

Mycroft glanced at Greg’s mouth, then back to his eyes. He didn’t say a word, just grabbed Greg’s hips, spun them around, and kissed him hard. They went from making casual small talk to dueling with their tongues while pressed against the inside of Greg’s door. Though, that certainly didn’t last long. There was nothing timid about Gregory Lestrade, especially when he flipped them around again and pressed himself flush to Mycroft, mouth open and hungry as it slanted over his own. Rough, sure hands moved between them to slide buttons free all the way down Mycroft’s torso then shoved shirt and vest over freckled shoulders. They didn’t go very far since Greg still had him pinned to the front door. 

Trying to maintain the advantage, Mycroft slid his hand between them to cup Greg’s erection through his trousers and squeezed firmly. It didn’t have quite the effect he expected as Greg went from being desperate to get Mycroft naked to just plain desperate. He turned Mycroft around so he faced the door and pressed against his arse, rubbing his erection in the crease between Mycroft’s cheeks, and even through his trousers and pants Mycroft felt the incredible heat of him.

“I don’t know why you feel the need to speed through this,” Greg purred as he rocked his hips against Mycroft again. Honestly, the thought hadn’t even occurred to Mycroft. All he ever had the time or inclination for had been fast and hard then on with life. What was the point of slow and heated? “Next time,” Greg continued, “I’m going to show you how good it can be when you savor instead of devour, but right now I think you need this more than slow and sensual.”

His hand slid between the door and Mycroft’s hips to cup him the way he had done to Greg moments before. The move had Mycroft’s forehead dropping against the door and his hips bucked forward into the grip then back into the grind of Greg’s pelvis against Mycroft’s arse. It had been far too long since he last allowed his body any form of release other than the endorphins acquired through exercise, and the absence of this sort of pleasure meant Mycroft wouldn’t last long at this rate. That certainly didn’t mean he would just give in to the pull of impending climax without a fight.

Capable hands rubbed over his body, one sliding over his chest while the other continued to rub over his straining cock until Mycroft decided he wanted more. Romance might be something new to him, but sex he knew. He reached back and unbuckled Greg’s belt, unbuttoned his trousers, and unzipped them with a few jerks and flicks of his fingers. When he turned his head to the side he caught Greg’s surprised and aroused stare with a self-satisfied smirk of his own. 

A low growl vibrated against his back and Mycroft shivered at just how arousing that sound proved to be when it came from a very sexy detective inspector, but he didn’t lose the smirk either. “Unless you are planning to fuck me against this door, I suggest we move this to somewhere more comfortable.”

“What if I want to fuck you against the door?” Greg asked while nipping at the back of Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Then you need to stop teasing and actually do it,” he grumbled, pushing back harder against Greg’s hips. All he got for his efforts was a low chuckle and cool air on his back. 

Turning to find out where Greg disappeared to, Mycroft saw him glance over his shoulder with a cheeky grin and drop his shirt in a heap on the floor. He took the offered opportunity to look at Greg’s well-muscled torso, following the thin trail of brown and silver hair under the small belly button until it disappeared beneath snug, black boxer briefs. Oh, yes. Gregory Lestrade took care of his body very well.

“Are you just going to stare, or do you plan to touch at some point?” That cheeky grin never left the rough, handsome face and Mycroft couldn’t help but smile back. The man had no shame at all when it came to his body. Something Mycroft could learn from, he supposed.

“I plan to do more than just touch,” Mycroft murmured as he followed Greg into a moderate bedroom with a comfortable looking bed. Everything was neat, which was the extent of his observational skills concerning the room considering sometime between Mycroft losing sight of Greg and finding him again all his clothes had been removed. His mouth watered as he took in everything Greg had to offer. He wasn’t lacking anywhere as far as Mycroft could tell.

Already starting across the space, he came to a stop when Greg stepped back. “If you want to touch, you need to finish stripping. I want to touch you too.” 

This moment had been the only reason Mycroft hadn’t suggested an immediate shag in a closet upon their first meeting. His skills in bed proved to be exceptional over the years, but his body type wasn’t ideal. Still, better to get it over with now than learn further down the road that Greg just didn’t find him attractive. With that resolution firmly in his mind, Mycroft pulled off the rest of his clothing, folding it neatly before dropping them into a tidy pile. He saw Greg’s eyebrow arch as he folded his trousers, but Greg said nothing so Mycroft just continued until he stood completely bare for his lover’s scrutiny. With the overhead light still on and a lamp glowing in the corner Greg couldn’t miss a single flaw including the extra weight Mycroft tended to carry around his middle.

Since he watched for a reaction, Mycroft saw it when Greg licked his lips, but he couldn’t tell if it meant the precursor to telling Mycroft that he didn’t have the shape Greg expected or if the gesture showed appreciation. Greg answered his question when he closed the space between them, kissed Mycroft hungrily, teeth nipping and tongue sliding deep, then dropped to his knees. 

“I don’t know why you look so nervous, but I’m going to make you forget how to be self-conscious in just a second.” Before Mycroft could ask how Greg intended to do that warm breath skated over the slick head of his erection, halting all trains of thought in the middle of their tracks. Greg must have noticed because he hummed and kissed the tip, tongue peeking out to swipe over the slit. 

Warmth built in Mycroft, covering his skin in a light flush as his head fell back and a moan vibrated between them. His left hand slid into silvery, thick hair and Mycroft forced himself to tip his head forward to take in the sight of Greg closing his mouth around the head even as he felt the light suction down to his toes. “Christ. Greg.” 

Greg pulled off, sliding his lips over the shaft from tip to the base. “I like the sound of Greg coming from you.” He sucked one testicle into his mouth, licking gently over the delicate skin and causing air to catch in Mycroft’s throat. “You look good when your skin is flushed.” That intense heat moved to the neglected testicle followed by a low hum from the man on his knees. “You always look good.” Muscles bunched in Mycroft’s thighs, tightened in his abdomen when Greg’s clever mouth took the length of him into the back of his throat. He felt the slick muscles squeeze the head of his erection and growled, pulling Greg off and all but tossing him onto the bed.

A startled laugh sounded in the room, but Mycroft ignored it as he closed the distance between them again, pushing Greg back onto the bed to lave at his skin all the way down to the thick cock nestled in neatly trimmed grey hair. “Nice,” Mycroft murmured, nipping at the base of the shaft just to watch it jump.

“Thanks,” came the breathless reply. Mycroft had him on length, but Gregory definitely sported the thicker erection he decided, mouthing along the underside all the way up to the tip which he licked enthusiastically. He wanted Greg past thought, past reasoning. This goal in mind, Mycroft sucked the head into his mouth, bobbing up and down over the first couple inches and flicking his tongue over the glans. “Jesus, Mycroft!” 

Fingers slid into copper hair and held him close, nudging him further down as Greg tried to get deeper into Mycroft’s mouth. There. The need he wanted reflected in pupils blown wide with lust. Gorgeous. He only managed to take Greg as deeply as he could manage twice before Greg pushed him back and rolled them again. “Are you a top or a bottom?” Greg asked with need stark in his voice.

“I have been both. It depends on the lover.” That was a lie. He only ever bottomed twice in his life because it required a certain level of trust that did not come naturally to someone in Mycroft’s line of work. As a rule, anyone he took to bed ended up on the bottom. And what a fine bottom Gregory had.

“Let me rephrase that,” Greg said, reaching for the drawer to pull out a bottle of lubricant and a condom. “Would you object to bottoming for me?”

Watching the man move and knowing the deeply engrained sense of right and wrong hidden behind deep brown eyes, Mycroft didn’t hesitate in his reply. “No, but it had been…a while.”

Greg smiled wolfishly, rolled Mycroft onto his stomach and lifted his hips higher. “Then I better prepare you really well.” 

It sounded like a threat and a promise, making him groan before Gregory’s fingers even found his entrance. No, Mycroft realized with a jolt. That definitely was not a finger. Moaning at the thought, Mycroft tried to look behind him to watch Greg lick over the small opening. No one had ever done that to him before, though he knew of the practice. Things like this were usually reserved for the slow and sensual Greg mentioned earlier, and Mycroft just didn’t have the time or the inclination for that. Before Gregory, anyway.

Mycroft wiggled under Greg’s tongue and fingers, moving from groans and appreciative sounds to frustrated need faster than he expected. With three fingers sliding in and out of him, nudging that spot only often enough to keep Mycroft on edge, he gripped the pillow tightly and all but snarled. “Stop teasing, Gregory. I have been known to retaliate.” 

“I look forward to it,” Greg answered. It would have annoyed Mycroft if he hadn’t heard the edge of control in the deep voice. Both of them had passed the point of teasing, much to Mycroft’s relief. The fingers slid free and Mycroft heard the pop of the lubricant cap a moment before he felt the press of the wide head against his hole. Slowly, so bloody slowly, Greg inched forward until the head popped in, then it was a steady slide all the way to the base.

He couldn’t breathe from the full feeling and the intense intimacy of the moment. Not once in the history of his sex life had he felt so close to the person sharing in the experience. The night just kept getting more interesting. When he couldn’t take the wait any longer, Mycroft arched his back so Greg slid just that much deeper. “Move, Gregory. For God’s sake, move.”

Greg didn’t respond with words, just pulled back almost all the way to the tip then jerked him back, thrusting in hard enough to send a jolt through Mycroft. “You’re so tight,” Greg whispered, breathing shallow as he picked up the pace.

Mycroft reached under himself to grip his own cock, stroking fast as Greg took him from behind. He cried out then bit his lip when Greg shifted enough to strike his prostate on the next thrust. 

“There?” His lover asked needlessly, since his next thrust struck the same place followed by the next and the next. So subtly Mycroft didn't notice the shift, Greg went from shallow, searching thrusts, to deep and relentless. Air hitched in his lungs, caught in his throat, and escaped in the form of sounds Mycroft would vehemently deny later. He clenched around Greg as his body reached for the height of ecstasy, just out of reach, and realized it had been too long since his last climax and he wouldn't be able to last much longer. Everything in his gathered, heat pooling low in the base of his spine. 

“Close. I’m—I’m going to…” It was all he managed before climax slammed into him, making his back arch and his passage tighten around the intrusion as he spilled over the sheets with a harsh cry of Greg’s name. 

It might have taken five or fifteen more thrusts for Greg to follow him, but Mycroft felt so high he couldn’t have counted if he wanted to, so he just waited to hear the call of his name, or some iteration thereof, and the weight of his lover pressing down on him. He felt the sting of teeth sinking into his shoulder, forcing his cock to jerk under him in surprised pleasure. They lay in a tangle of limbs, gasping for air as well as for thought for an indeterminate amount of time before Mycroft felt Greg slide carefully out of his body. A moment later, Greg rolled him over and wiped him down with a warm cloth, shoved the soiled sheet away, and pulled Mycroft close against him under the weight of the comforter. 

“That…” Greg trailed off.

“Will certainly be occurring again in the future,” Mycroft finished for him. The huff of laughter against his shoulder felt warmer than his own down blanket and Mycroft grinned. 

“Are you able to stay the night?”

“I…” Shouldn’t? Certainly. Couldn’t? Not necessarily. “If it wouldn’t be inconvenient,” he settled on.

“Not even a bit,” Greg slurred behind him. The press of lips against the nape of Mycroft’s neck made him smile again, but before he could respond he heard the soft snores of his lover. Whatever he wanted to say wasn’t that important anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and continued support! I fully intend to complete this story in the next few months, and I appreciate everyone who stuck with the story this far. You are all wonderful and I am incredibly grateful for each of you.


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